


Oh là là, la balançoire!

by Vivian_Curtis



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Dorks in Love, Dry Humping, First Kiss, First Time, Grantaire got ink, Humor, Loss of Virginity, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, Modern Setting, Orgasms, Pining!Enjolras, Sex, Sexual Tension, Tears, Virgin!Enjolras, blowjob, oblivious!enjolras, there'll be smut at the end
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 01:24:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 48,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2330123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivian_Curtis/pseuds/Vivian_Curtis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras pines for Grantaire. Can a little, stupid incident with a swing help him?</p><p>UPDATE: sex in chapter 6! Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PilferingApples](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PilferingApples/gifts).



> This is my first fic for this fandom. Lately I'm slightly obsessed with this pairing so I thought it was a good idea to celebrate it with a fic. 
> 
> Thank you so much Pepperweb, you are the perfect beta!
> 
> balançoire = swing

You could say anything about Enjolras but lack of punctuality wasn't one of them.

He had a sort of natural gift for organizing his day, but this ability had been further improved since Enjolras had become the leader of Les Amis de l'ABC, a group of students from differents Universities of Paris which fought for civil rights and social justice. Les Amis would meet almost every night at the Cafè Musain in order to discuss their opinion and organize their work. It came without saying that Enjolras was the most active of all of them and, with his committment and charisma, he was often compared to the revolutionary students of the Uprising of 1832: he was a great leader and his friends relied upon his help.

So yeah, Enjolras had many reasons to be methodical to a point, able to meet everything in life with strict organisational skills honed over many years.

This rigour came to light in a particular way with his morning habits.

Up at 6.30 a.m; shower, breakfast, yoga exercises; then he would get dressed and dedicate an hour to computer drafting of various speeches for meetings with Les Amis and/or edits of essays for college (usually finished at least five days in advance). On Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays there were classes at University. On Wednesdays he'd do the shopping and other chores. On Fridays he'd distribute fliers on the streets to support Les Amis' work: Enjolras could stand at corners until lunch time without taking a break, his blue eyes sparkling with incredible determination all the time; then a breath of wind would be enough to move his golden curls like a sort of halo, making him look like a stunning modern version of St. Michael the Archangel.

Since his routine was so packed, Enjolras' typical morning was interspersed with as many cups of black coffee as the young man could get. Although, due his best friend and roomate Combeferre being seriously concerned by the fact that Enjolras considered the risks of abuse of caffeine as realistic as an urban myth, he did his best to hide coffee supplies in the most idiotic places that a human mind could find. For the record, the ideas for hiding places were always Courfeyrac's; Combeferre merely followed orders.

Even during the weekend Enjolras' agenda underwent very few changes; while his roommates considered it a divine right to exploit Saturday and Sunday sleeping until hunger forced them to crawl into the kitchen, the luxury Enjolras allowed himself was an hour of jogging that slipped perfectly between waking up and showering. After that he resumed his day like always..

Except for today.

The revolutionary's self-discipline had in fact come to terms with Courfeyrac, who seemed willing to consecrate his undergraduate years to an ambitious undertaking: become the best - or the worst, depending on Enjolras' point of view – party organizer of all the faculty. That was sadly clear from the first day of classes. On the second day, Enjolras, Combeferre and – thank God – Jehan, had sworn to throw Courfeyrac out into the street if he ever decided to organize a party in their apartment. Courfeyrac had had no choice but to accept the will of the triumvirate. As a result, only close friends could be invited to their apartament, but, as Enjolras had discovered, the small number would not have solved much, as long as Èponine and Grantaire were included.

So, last night Courfeyrac had given a "private party".

Considering how little alcohol he drank, there was never a risk that Enjolras would awake with a hangover, but nothing and no one could save him from sleep deprivation. Even on the occasion the blond managed to find a good excuse to retire to his room at a decent hour, the other Amis were loud enough to keep him still awake until they collapsed in their turn. Enjolras' circadian system was so trained to usually have the upper hand on this, and so despite the bags under his eyes and his immagination chock-full of murderous fantasies, Enjolras usually managed got out of bed at 6:30 am, as scheduled.

This particular Saturday, however, began badly.

Self-discipline or not, Enjolras had slept more than usual and, opening his eyes, he saw the alarm clock mark 7.23 am. Oh, there're not words to explain how much fucked Coufeyrac was... Damn him and his parties! It seemed it was time to make the threat real. For a long moment, Enjolras' mind was lost behind the vivid image of Courfeyrac dressed in rags and begging in an alley. It was a very pleasant image.

Okay, decided Enjolras; a little delay wasn't sufficient to undermine his day.

He got up and reached for his jogging outfit, laid on a chair beside the bed, but an unusual rumbling in his stomach stopped him. Enjolras rolled his eyes resigned: he hated having to admit that yes, eating at least three times a day was an important antidote to death as Combeferre and Joly keeped repeating, but contrary to what others believed, although their leader would prefer to fight capitalism rather than wasting precious time nurturing his body, he was not stupid. Since Enjolras was in a hurry this morning, he decided to take a quick breakfast before heading out. The mess that he faced in the flat whilst going into the kitchen gave him such a sense of deja-vu that Enjolras didn't even care.

Instead, what left him rooted to the spot in shock when he emerged from the kitchen was the sight of Grantaire deeply asleep, curled up like a baby on the couch in the living room. A drooling baby with wrinkled clothes perhaps, but that was beyond the point. In reaction, Enjolras' toast with butter, jam and peanut butter fell face down right on the carpet: an additional problem for Courfeyrac, when he would have to clean up all the mess later.

Enjolras knew that he could still breathe, but his throat was so dry and tight that he prayed he was not on the verge of passing out or doing something else equally stupid. He was also struggling to move; he could only stand there staring at Grantaire. Enjolras shuddered at the thought of what his expression was: probably something like Marius' face when he was with/thought of/texted Cosette and that was something embarrassing beyond words. Enjolras had no desire to become like that idiotic fanboy of Napoleon, especially when Grantaire could wake up at any time and see him.

Oh yeah. Grantaire. Benôit Grantaire, twenty-four, art student out of the course, cynic, great admirer of alcoholic beverages, and for some inexplicable reason member of Les Amis de l'ABC. If only his curriculum could stop at this...

Instead, Enjolras knew who Grantaire was better than anyone else, even better than the cynic himself.

Grantaire was the thorn in his side, his most heated and smarter opponent at the debates at the Cafe Musain, the sarcstic drunkard who believed in nothing but swore to believe in Enjolras – yeah, as if! -, the guy who drove Enjolras crazy all the time with the way he ridiculed the blond's ideas, questioned them, made them weak – and at times even Enjolras couldn't deny that the bastard had a point, damn!

It went without saying that the revolutionary would never admit anything in front of anyone. And even if Enjolras had let it slip that yes, maybe sometimes Grantaire had been right and actually useful, it would be infinitely better than let the others find out how Grantaire was all Enjolras could think of every night, when the blond came home from the Musain.

Grantaire was Enjolras' first, absolute, unreasonable and totally shameful love interest.

Before meeting the cynic, Enjolras had felt his soul expand just for high ideals. His rare sexual fantasies were based on undefined bodies, rather than real people. It was not of any help that Grantaire had all the physical characteristics that Enjolras secretly loved the most, from glossy black hair up to piercing blue eyes, going through the solid body typical of a boxer and that dreamy tanned skin.

Now all this splendor was in front of Enjolras, his to watch freely, without Grantaire or anyone else's critical look to curb the greed in the revolutionary's eyes with the fear of being discovered.

 _"Do not stare at his muscles."_ Enjolras began to repeat to himself _"Do not stare at them. Don't. Enough. Stop it!... Ok, at least don't open your mouth if you don't want to leave_ _a_ _puddle of saliva on the floor."_

Enjolras swallowed. He wasn't used to being able to watch Grantaire as much as he wanted - God, after three years he still had to get used to being in love with him! - and it was having several effects on him. Good effects like feeling curiously light and at peace with the whole universe. Not so good effects like feeling more strongly than ever the desire to kiss Grantaire.

But then Grantaire stirred in his sleep, curling up on his side with movements worthy of a bear in hibernation and startling Enjolras. The revolutionary gave a long sigh of relief when he realized that the other wasn't waking up at all, but his satisfaction died just a second later, when his gaze caught something on the right arm of the artist.

Grantaire usually wore clothes large enough to hide his body and its shape defined by years of boxing and martial arts. It seemed that during the party, however, Grantaire had removed his sweatshirt, revealing a tight fitting green t-shirt that angels had sewn using one of Enjolras' dirtiest wet dreams.

The worst part? A tattoo was peeking out from below the sleeve, something that - Enjolras considered, leaning a little just to see better - totally looked like ivy leaves colored with beautiful shades of green, the kind of vibrant colours that make the difference between a terrible tattoo and a masterpiece.

Enjolras closed his eyes, forcing himself to count to twenty and breathe evenly. A tattoo. Grantaire got ink and Enjolras would have bet it was something wonderful and delightfully complex in its meaning. Sure, Grantaire could not have tattoos of barbed wire or something just as stupid: it should have been something unique and breathtaking! Yes, trust the cynic to fulfill the revolutionary's ultimate sexual fantasy!

Oh, Enjolras was so screwed!

It was too much to bear, especially in the early morning and without having had the first dose of coffee. Given that Enjolras didn’t have the strength, nor the desire to play hide and seek with coffee stocks hidden God-knows-where by Courfeyrac and Combeferre, the blond went straight into his room, put on his clothes from the day before - to hell with the jogging now! - and left the house trying not to think about the tragedy of his existence just long enough to remember the way to the nearest cafe.

 

***

A cup of espresso and a plain croissant after, things were looking a bit better.

That’s if "better" meant being convinced that not much had changed in the overall scheme of things: it was simply increased the level of Things That Enjolras Knew About Grantaire And That He Would Find Very Useful While Masturbating.

The rest was the same as before: a tightfitting t-shirt could increase Enjolras' lust, but couldn't make him love Grantaire more than he already did or make the blond suffer more at the idea that his feelings would never be reciprocated. Although, seeing the love of his life wearing a t-shirt that left little to imagination had reminded Enjolras how terrible it would be to see the cynic falling in love, one day, with a person who wasn't Enjolras and that could have all of Grantaire. It was a shitty feeling.

Enjolras was walking in big strides, the paper coffee cup squeezed between his fingers and no destination in mind. The tattoo reappeared before his eyes, causing the blond to stop. God, Enjolras knew already that he would easily give himself pleasure for a month just thinking about that damned tattoo.

It wasn't even nine o'clock in the morning and his mind was tired.

He was now at the edge of a small playground, deserted like the roads around it. It wasn't up to much: there were only a sandpit, a slide and two swings. Seeing them, Enjolras couldn't help but smile to himself. The swings brought back fond childood memories of hours spent playing in the garden, sitting on the swing, reading with his cat Robespierre curled up in his lap.

Putting the paper cup and his shoulder bag on a bench, the revolutionary sat down on one of the swings. The wooden seat creaked and Enjolras gave a slight push, stretching his long legs forward.

 _"Mmmh... perhaps going on a swing at my age is not the best idea..."_ _ _he__ admitted after a few oscillations. The movement of the swing reminded him instantly why that was among his favorite games... and reminded him of the times where he had also been reckless on the swing at home, a little demon, heedless of danger.

 _"Better stop before someone sees me."_ _ _Enjolras__ told himself, putting his feet on the ground. He wasn't like Courfeyrac: to make an idiot of himself was not the purpose of his life.

Just then, the saddle gave way and Enjolras fell to the ground. Straight on the sacrum.

The surprise didn't anesthetize the pain at all, so the blond began to feel it the same second his mind realized – in this order - what had happened, how it had been possible and that he was a complete moron.

No way. It could not be real. Things this stupid never happened to him!

He bit his lip hard, throwing a quick glance around to see if anyone had seen anything: no, there was nobody, thank God. Yet it didn’t stop Enjolras feeling humiliated and deeply angry with himself, to the point his hands trembled with tension; he clenched his fists, trying to make himself stop. He felt his cheeks pinched in a strange way, then realized that he was simply blushing in shame. Enjolras had to grit his teeth to get up, because as soon as he moved the pain exploded, taking the blond's breath away. When he was back on his feet, he tried closing his fists again but this time it did nothing to calm the tremors and his view was obscured by tears.

Enjolras didn't even know if he was more ashamed of the stupid way in which he had fallen, or for being hurt just... __there__.

 _"It's all right."_ he thought _"No one has seen anything."_

At least his pride was partly saved: he was the only one to know about the incident and, although he would need a very long time before thinking about it without burning with shame, it would have been worse if any of Les Amis had been with him..

There was just one problem to solve: how to get home.

The pain was constant and every step seemed to stress it; although in the past Enjolras had endured the effects of protests which had ended badly, he had to admit that now the situation was different. Then he’d found himself with a dislocated shoulder, a bloody lip and a small collection of bruises, nothing embarrassing, but now he had hurt his sacrum, it was like saying he was hurt in the __ass__ , and he was limping noticeably.

Enjolras carefully gathered his things and left the playground; before reaching the crosswalk, he decided he ought to walk slowly, in small steps, so as to give less attention: it would take much longer to get home, but he didn't care.

After ten grueling minutes of limping, Enjolras had lost count of how many times he had cursed for being so far away from his apartment. When he passed a familiar avenue, he stopped: yes, that just looked like the avenue at the end of which Jehan lived. Enjolras didn't visit the little poet often, mostly because, since Jehan had became Courfeyrac's boyfriend, he passed most of his time at their apartment. And when the two lovebirds moved in Jehan's old attic... well, let's just say that Enjolras would not set foot in that place even if he was chased by the National Guard.

But that morning the poet's house was safe, Enjolras pondered with the same clearness of mind that he usually reserved to the planning of a sit-in. Last night Jehan had told everybody about the short story he absolutely had to finish in order to participate in a literary contest. Enjolras hadn't really bothered listening to the details... except that the deadline was set at... when? Monday. Jehan had less than forty-eight hours to finish his short story and Enjolras was sure that:

1) the poet would deliver it perfectly on time, as usual;

2) his short story or poem or whatever it was would kick ass, as usual;

3) although anyone who knew Jean "Jehan" Prouvaire - including Jehan himself - was aware of the veracity of points 1 and 2, it was inevitable that the imminent deadline would have made the poet nervous, not at all inclined to waste time in the amatory arts, so that not even God, Courfeyrac or the ghost of Lord Byron could dissuade him to leave his desk until he had finished his piece of work.

 _Ergo_ there was no way that the night before Courfeyrac had followed his lover in the attic, as usually happened on weekends. _Ergo_ Enjolras could visit Jehan and ask for some painkillers and, with a little bit of luck, return to the apartment in a less humiliating condition.

While he was inside the elevator Enjolras wondered if Jehan was so absorbed in his art he wouldn’t hear the doorbell.

Enjolras was lucky and unlucky at the same time, because the door swung open to reveal Courfeyrac.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Enjolras hissed between his teeth when he saw his friend.

"Shouldn't I be the one asking that sort of question?" the other retorted, looking all too comfortable for wearing only a pair of flip-flops and a sort of flowered kimono.

"Didn't Jehan have to finish a short story for Monday?"

"Yes, but not this Monday, so there's no sex strike yet!" Courfeyrac - heedless of the blond's lethal look - winked and stepped aside to let Enjolras in "Why are you here? I would have sworn that Grantaire would take very good care of you... "

"Oh, right. Great care indeed." muttered Enjolras, rolling his eyes. He had no idea what standards Courfeyrac had, but being found asleep on the couch and - in all probability – with an incoming hangover weren't among the characteristics that Enjolras would have indicated to define the perfect guest.

Enjolras entered the flat shuffling like a penguin. Obviously it was too much to ask that his friend wouldn't notice anything and the revolutionary wondered what had kept him from leaving as soon as Courfeyrac had opened the door. Oh, right: the fact that he was in absolute need of painkillers.

"Man, how the fuck are you walking?" Courfeyrac said, frowning in a way that Enjolras didn't like at all.

"I walk how I want, thank you very much."

Courfeyrc opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a shrill voice: it was Jehan, who poked his head out of the kitchen smiling like he hadn't seen Enjolras in weeks, rather than a few hours.

"Enjolras! Glad to see you!" the poet went up to him and threw his arms around the leader of Les Amis' neck, forcing him to bend so as to reduce the height difference enough to print a big kiss on the cheek; he seemed not to notice the blond's grimace of pain "Why are you here? Shouldn't you be jogging? Have you had breakfast? Come, I was going to put on pancakes, why don't you eat with us? It will be fun, Cosette and Marius are here as well!”

"Cosette and...?" Enjolras said confused, but Jehan cleared things up for him by tapping gently on the door next to them.

"Cosette! Breakfast is almost ready! "

"Coming..." Marius' muffled voice came over the door, followed by Cosette's giggling.

 _"Oh for fuck's sake...!"_ Enjolras thought horrified _"What am I doing here? Is it possible that all my friends are like damned rabbits? "_

It was easy to suppose that Monsieur Fouchelevant and Javert were unaware of the fact that their beloved daughter was in the habit of crashing at Jehan's place in order to have sexual intercourse with her boyfriend; the fact that Marius was still alive was a strong indication in favor of this thesis. For a moment that thought distracted Enjolras from the almost tangible feeling of Courfeyrac's stare, which seemed glued on him.

Jehan smiled and took Enjolras by the hand to lead him towards the kitchen.

"Come with me. We have all the coffee you could wish for, French toasts, pancakes, maple syrup, honey..." then the little poet realized that Enjolras was putting up some resistance while following him, so he turned around, eyeing the other from head to foot with a questioning glance. "Enjy, what...?"

"Oh. My. God." Courfeyrac said behind them "Jesus H. Christ! I can't believe it. Fuck. It's too rich to be true! It's fucking gold! That lucky bastard... He did it! "

"Courf, honey, what the hell are you talking about?" the poet asked with the calm and patient voice tipical of someone who has to deal with Courfeyrac on a daily basis.

"Shit, darling... Just look at him!" the other replied, pointing at Enjolras shamelessly " _It happened_!"

"What happened?"

Courfeyrac looked at his boyfriend with a pained expression, as if the fact that Jehan hadn't understood already was deeply disappointing. "He's _limping_ , Jehan! Limping! What can you deduce from that?!"

Oh, that...

Enjolras hadn't the faintest idea why Courfeyrac considered it so shocking that he had taken a blow to the sacrum: perhaps he’d already imagined the cause and found the scenario hilarious. Yeah, congratulations, Courf: even Enjolras, the impassive leader, the guy accused of never letting it go was human enough to get hurt like an idiot. Hooray hooray.

Enjolras cleared his throat, embarassed. He wouldn't reveal the actual details of the incident even under torture, but his friend's reaction was enough to make him blush deeply again. Damn that swing!

"Yes, I'm limping. Not a big deal." he said, hoping to settle the question quickly and without further damage to his own dignity "I would really appreciate if we don’t talk about it."

"Enjo..."

"Not now or ever, Courfeyrac. Not everyone is shameless like you."

The look with which the revolutionary accompanied these words would usually lower the room temperature a few degrees and easily silence a crowd, but strangely this time Courfeyrac seemed completely immune: his eyes lit up in a sort of ecstasy and his smile widened even more, resembling that of a sprite with bad intentions.

"Oh." Jehan said then, staring at at the blond with wide eyes, as if Enjolras had grown a second head "Oh... Oh, Enjolras! I'm... I'm so happy for you!" And saying that the poet embraced Enjolras with abandon, pressing his face against the other's chest "I almost started to give up all hope, you know? But now... now you're happy, aren't you?"

Enjolras had never been so inclined to question his friends' mental sanity. But before he could gather an explanationregarding that madness, the noise of Courfeyrac banging on the door of the guest room made him wince painfully.

"Cosette! Marius! Get out already! We must celebrate!"

A second later the door opened.

"Courf, what the... Oh, hello Enjolras, what a surprise!" Cosette said with a wide smile.

"It happened." said Courfeyrac "Do you understand? It _happened_!"

Apparently the two lovers hadn't understood anything, despite Courfeyrac winking at them, so they turned to Enjolras and Jehan, looking very puzzled. Well, the revolutionary thought, at least now he wasn't alone anymore.

"Enjolras." Courfeyrac said when he realized that winks and nods weren't of any help "He's limping. Is it clear now?"

"Actually no, it's not." Marius admitted.

Cosette instead seemed to glow with joy and, although Enjolras could not come to terms with what the hell was going on, he was sure that this was not a good sign.

"I knew it it was just a matter of time!" Cosette chirped ecstatically before jumping to embrace Enjolras along with Jehan "I'm so, so happy for you, dear!"

"I told him so myself." the poet sighed "We are all happy for you and it's a beautiful thing!"

 _"God, I know that I'm an atheist, but please take my soul now."_ Enjolras prayed.

"I do not understand." Marius mumbled, scratching the back of his head "Enjolras, why are you limping?

"Oh my God, Marius! You can't just ask people why they are limping!” Cosette exclaimed shocked, then she hissed "Especially when it's so obvious, darling! "

"But what is obvious?" her boyfriend insisted.

"Enjolras and Grantaire had been bad boys." Courfeyrac explained - by now his grin was demoniac. Marius opened his mouth again and Courfeyrac decided to give it a rest: "They had sex."

Wait... WHAT?!

Enjolras' mind became white: there was no space anymore for the incident with the swing, the embarrassment he’d felt after the fall or anything else that wasn't the terrifying misunderstanding which had arisen.

His friends thought that he and Grantaire...

No. No fucking way. It was impossible. Why would they believe that?

They were definitely kidding, there was no other logical explanation.

All Les Amis, actually anyone frequenting the Café Musain knew Enjolras and Grantaire were unable to stay in the same room together without ending up arguing. The way they interacted didn't know any variant, since the first day it was made of sarcasm and recriminations and Enjolras wondering what he had done to deserve to fall in love with an arsehole who come to the meetings just for the pleasure of torturing him.

The voices around him were an excited murmur and Enjolras' head was spinning too much to catch words or to care anyway; when a hand ruffled his hair and another landed on his cheek to caress it lovingly, he couldn't even figure out who they belonged. His eyes were veiled, could not focus. The blond bowed his head and closed his eyes. Then he saw _him_ clearly, just as he had seen him... stared at him that morning: Grantaire, his unhappy, secret love that Enjolras thought he had kept hidden so well.

His friends had find it out. But even so, why they were so careless to make fun of him? Enjolras knew very well he hadn't any experience in the matter of love, but did his feelings seem so immature that they could be diminished with jokes, as if it was the most fleeting of crushes?

"I-I..." he murmured in a faint voice, "I fell."

Jehan, still clutched to his chest, was the only one to hear it.

"What did you say, Enjolras?"

"I said that I fell. I slipped while I was on the street and I hurt my tailbone, okay? Grantaire and I have not done anything, because that's just something that will never happen!" he pushed Jehan away and walked towards the door "I know already! I knew it from the beginning, ok? I've never been under the illusion that I have any hope with him! "

The others were staring at him in silence; they had realized the misunderstanding and that, coupled with Enjolras' reaction, had stunned them.

"Do not try to follow me, I need to be alone." Enjolras said, closing the door behind his back.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More angst, some crack...

Enjolras walked without stopping.

It was at a slow but purposeful pace and he didn’t look back to see if his friends were following him. He continued straight on, mouth reduced to a stern line while his eyes were stinging from holding back tears.

The truth was that Enjolras was a complete novice in this sort of things. Sentimental things, _ça va sans dire_.

He could face a crowd and silence it with his mere charming presence, enmesh it with the frightening power of his convictions, inflame people's heart with his words and, although during the speaches Enjolras' gaze would never remain fixed, every single person in the audience had always had a deep feeling of being looked straight into their eyes all the time.

Enjolras had the strength and the charisma of a great leader, the lucidity of a pure heart, the precision typical of illuminated minds and he was implacable just like those men and women who are going to change their world.

And just like any soul to whom it is given similar magnitude, Enjolras was paying the price with that particular loneliness of the soul that prevents the understanding of very intimate things, such as love.

The revolutionary had spent the first twenty years of his life glad to know that his heart was capable to resist to sentimentalism, so as to let him engage in battles far more noble and universal than the challenge a stupid, childish crush could offer.

Then Grantaire had made his entrance, ruining everything: for the first time Enjolras had found himself dealing with something that not only was a terrible unknown, but that, as much as he tried, continued to seem crazy and illogical to him.

If only he had a crush on a guy who had his same ideas, instead of challenging him, forcing him to reconsider his own beliefs at least a hundred times over...

If only he had just a _crush_! That would have been a huge relief, Enjolras reasoned: maybe, if it had been a fleeting interest of that kind, at this time it would have dissolved already, leaving him free to be clear headed and confident again.

On the contrary, if there was one thing that the revolutionary had realized in those three years of torment, it was that many others would follow: he loved Grantaire deeply, with a surge even higher than that which made him fight for social equality. Enjolras couldn't tell if he was ashamed by the fact that he loved Grantaire more than the cause, or rather by the way he found it so easy to do. Enjolras would have given his own life with no hesitation for Grantaire's sake as well as for his ideals, but he was afraid of drafting a list... because he knew long ago who would have been put first.

Enjolras didn't know at all how to accept his feelings, so he dealt with them with anger; being cruel to Grantaire, hating himself for it, hoping at each new argument to get rid of the cynic once and for all, so that he would be able to forget him. It never happened: next time Grantaire would be there agian, no mattered how harsh their argument had been, and Enjolras would be cross with himself for feeling relief. The blond was tired of feeling vulnerable, at the mercy of what was said or done by a guy who would never have wanted him.

No, the revolutionary was no expert in matters of love.

Jehan was though, a treacherous part of Enjolras' mind reminded him. In the past Enjolras had considered more than once the pros and cons of seeking advice from the poet, but the fear of being judged was so deep that he had always preferred silence.

In the end, wasn't that the right choice? Apparently, Jehan and the others had knew about his feelings for a long time and it had not been of any help. It was humiliating to discover that his friends were more excited by the idea that Enjolras, the impassive leader, had finally had sex rather than by the idea that he was in love.

He felt a little betrayed, but Enjolras was too vulnerable to withstand his bad mood without the comfort of a friend. His pride made him feel bad when he realized he’d lied saying to his friends he didn't want to be followed. He was feeling so fragile; the only thing he felt like doing was curling up into a ball and crying like he used to as a child. He needed someone who knew what to do. That person was Combeferre, no doubt.

Enjolras' thumb moved on the phone screen quickly and, while he waited for his best friend to pick up the phone, he leaned against the trunk of a tree along the pavement.

The voice on the other end of the phone came surprised and very sleepy - perhaps too sleepy, Enjolras judged, since it was now mid-morning.

"Enjolras...?"

"Were you still sleeping?" the blond asked, unable to restrain or mask the tone of reproach.

“Well, yeah... why are you calling me? Has something happened?"

Enjolras swallowed hard, trying not to think back to all the things gone wrong in the last hour: better to wait until he could talk to Combeferre in private.

"Can you come and pick me up, please?" Enjolras said whilst looking around to get his bearings in the street where his wanderings had led him to "I was on my way and I slipped, it’s not that bad, but it would be better if..."

"Shit... Enjolras, I'm not at home right now!"

"And where are you?" he asked flatly.

"At Èponine's."

"..."

"Enjolras, are you still there?"

"Ah."

"Look, we’ve been together for a while... for four months now, actually, so don't tell me..." poor Combeferre began rambling, completely unaware that that _"Ah"_ was not hiding any criticism towards his love life, but rather was a cold stunned _“Ah”_ like in _"Ah, so last night you bastards left me alone with Grantaire asleep on the couch, so that I might find him when I was still sleepy and groggy, likely to make a fool of myself in some way, and this in spite of..."_

Enjolras's brain drew the rest of the thought while Combeferre was in the middle of his explanation regarding his relationship with Èponine.

_"... in spite of the fact that you've realized I'm crazy for Grantaire and I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to do with my feelings?"_

"Combeferre."

Across the line, the flow of words stopped instantly.

"Yeah?"

"You know that I love Grantaire?"

In the silence, Enjolras was able to sense with a sort of supernatural clarity that his friend was rubbing his forehead.

"Enjolras, my friend, we really have to do something about your lack of filter..."

"At the moment that’s hardly relevant. Jehan, Courfeyrac, Cosette and Marius are quite informed and I’ve just had to endure their congratulations for sleeping with Grantaire."

"Wait, you slept with Grantaire?!" Combeferre echoed with a shout high enough to compel Enjolras to pull his phone away from his ear with a grimace of annoyance.

"You idiot, I di..."

The noise of a sudden and rapid struggle stopped him, confused. Combeferre was obviously defending the possession of the phone. In vain.

"Well, bravo, little Enjy!" came Èponine's voice, shrill and cheerful-in-a-very-suspicious-like way "Congratulations on finally losing your virginity to R! God, what kind of sadistic monster are you to give blue balls to my poor baby?"

"Èponine! Stop it!" Combeferre cried before the fight at that end of the phone resumed "Enjolras, are you there?... L-Listen, forget what Èponine said, ok?" he stammered, embarrassed.

"Make him suffer and I'll kill you!" the girl threatened in the background.

"Èp, that's enough! Enjolras, I'm really sorry about that..." Combeferre stopped there, not knowing how to continue. Enjolras had not yet in any way replied to Èponine's words and it was unlike him to leave comments about his private life unanswered. Combeferre stared at the phone, expecting to have been cut off.

"Did you know?" the revolutionary said again, always with a flat tone.

Combeferre couldn't imagine what might have happened the night before to result in Enjolras confessing, despite his pride and all the insecurities given by his inexperience, his feelings and get... physical with Grantaire. Experience had taught Combeferre that his dearest friend only used that tone when he was caught up in a fierce anger or on the verge of an emotional breakdown. And it was only by chance that Combeferre knew there was actually an alternative to the anger because the emotional breakdown had occurred once before...

 

_... And it was not a big surprise that it’d happened because of Grantaire. A couple of months after their first meeting with the cynic, Combeferre had found himself in front of the incredible and terrifying spectacle of Enjolras in the throes of a rage so strong that even the medical student didn't have any recollection._

_The leader of Les Amis had spent three endless days moving around their apartment like a tornado, slamming doors, writing at his laptop until ungodly hours of the morning, hitting the keys as if he wanted to grind them into a powder, erasing entire drafts of speeches for the next meeting with the Amis. When Combeferre had managed to read some of the printed sheets of text and had commented on the content with enthusiasm, Enjolras had looked daggers at him and, taking the sheets back, had reduced them to confetti._

_"Are you kidding me? This draft is pure shite!" Enjolras had hissed, going back to work feverishly "That arsehole would disassemble a speech like this in a second!"_

_"Who are you talking about, exactly?" Combeferre had asked, surprised that his friend’s anger had been generated by a person instead of writer's block, as he had initially believed._

_"Grantaire, who else?! That cynical, arrogant, drunken, good-for-nothing bastard comes to the Musain just for the sake of humiliating us and our work as well, but I won't be fucking beaten by someone like him! If he tries again to make one of his shitty remarks, I swear I'll kick him to pulp! "_

_"Uh-uh." Combeferre had replied, unable to think of a better answer._

_Enjolras had never torn drafts of his speeches to pieces: even when he wasn't convinced, he would keep them to make corrections or just salvage the parts that seemed more valid. Also, he had never said so many profanities, nor had his bad mood ever reached and stayed at that level for so long, to be honest._

_All that had alerted and scared Combeferre: there was something strange going on, but, Enjolras being Enjolras, it was impossible to get the truth. At the end of the three days, the revolutionary had locked himself in his bedroom and, after hours of silence, had emerged ghost-like with bags under his eyes and a pair of wrinkled sheets which he had pass to his friend._

_"It's very good, Enjolras. I mean it." the medical student had commented after reading, although the new speech was less incisive than the one reduced to pieces._

_"No, it looks like I wrote it with my arse." the blond had corrected him "But at this point, who the fuck cares?"_

_The leader's words had appeared as incomprehensible as his anger toward Grantaire: sure, the cynic knew how to get on someone's nerve, but not to the point of earning so much resentment!_

_The pieces of the puzzle, no matter how cliché it was, went into place during the next meeting at the Café Musain, when Grantaire had arrived. Combeferre had cast a worried glance at Enjolras, fearing that his friend might really throw himself at the cynic as he had threatened to. On the contrary, the revolutionary had visibly stiffened and, after a vague greeting, had gone to prepare himself for his speech. Combeferre would stake his reputation on the fact that Enjolras had blushed crimson as soon as he had caught sight of Grantaire. It was extraordinary, but nonetheless, it was what had happened._

_Then, the fog was gone as if it never existed and Combeferre had understood: his best, stubborn, proud friend had finally fallen in love._

_How was it possible for a human being as brilliant as Enjolras to love and stay so blind to the feeling itself, was a mystery. That, ladies and gentlemen, was love à la Enjolras and Combeferre'd be damned if he could get a clue about how it worked._

_For the next three years he had kept a very vigilant eye on his dear friend, waiting for the moment of truth to come._

 

And the moment, it semeed, was finally here. Combeferre swallowed. "I had some suspicions. Come on, we've known each other since we were kids and..."

"Since when?"

"What?"

"Since when did you know?"

Combeferre hesitated. "Two months after R began coming to the meetings, I think. Do you remember when you went crazy for three days, trying to write an unassailable speech?"

A gasp was the only answer he got. Of course Enjolras remembered. Combeferre was convinced from the beginning that those days (whom Courfeyrac had baptized _Enjolras' Dies Irae)_ had opened not only his eyes, but the revolutionary's as well.

"Why didn't you said anything?" Enjolras asked; his voice was no longer expressionless: worse, it was heartbreaking.

Combeferre paused, listening carefully, hoping to be mistaken. No, there was no doubt.

"Enjolras... Are you... crying?"

"Why didn’t you do anything, Mathias?"

 _"Oh my God."_ Combeferre thought, running a hand over his face. Despite so many years of friendship, first names were something that he and Enjolras only used in rare or, better to say, extreme cases.

"I’ve been alone for three years, not knowing what to do. You are well aware I don’t know, or understand anything about love! It hurts so bad, Mathias, it hurts too much."

"Samuel..."

Being called by his first name made Enjolras hesitate for a moment. "If only you had said something..."

"It was really not up to me to speak first."

"Bullshit!"

"You think so?"

"Yeah, obviously!"

"You yourself don't know how to react to your own feelings, that's exactly the reason it's never been my right to interfere."

"To interfere? I'm talking about your help, something that I needed!" It was amazing how Enjolras could still speak in an understandable way, but Combeferre could tell his friend was making an effort not to weep.

Combeferre sighed, feeling guilty. "I'm sorry, I've not been able to fully understand you. I was sure that you didn't want to talk about it with anyone and I was afraid you'd be angry if ... "

"You keep saying nonsense."

"Maybe I do, but the fact is that love doesn't make much sense. Are you really telling me you would have listened about something that goes against logic?"

"I would listen even now. Anything that can make me stop suffering."

"Samuel, you can’t expect me to have all the answers...”

"No, but we both know you are far more experienced than me."

"But you're the only one who knows what you want and what you want to do about it."

"Shit..."

It wasn't going well at all. Combeferre realized that his words weren't much help.

"Listen, Samuel, where did you say you are? Give me a couple of minutes to get there, I'll take Èponine's car and... "

"Don't!"

"What do you mean?"

"..."

"I swear I can hear you thinking right now." Combeferre muttered, shaking his head.

"Just tell me one thing. Does he know?"

Over the years, Enjolras had called the artist using his surname, like everyone else, like all the Amis always did among them; it was true that he often called Grantaire with very unflattering names, sometimes risking - without even realizing it - to hurt the cynic's feelings irreparably. The leader had never referred to Grantiare like this, without naming him in any way, which revealed through the palpable anxiety in his voice, how much power the oblivious R had over him.

 _"It's like Enjolras is afraid to call him by name."_ Combeferre considered, realizing that, at twenty-two, Enjolras had the emotional maturity of a child.

"No, he doesn't have a clue." The medical student almost had to bite his tongue to keep from confessing that poor Grantaire actually _hoped_.

Enjolras let out a long sigh of relief. "Then it's all right."

"Hardly." the other said, thinking about how much pain he felt for both Enjolras' and Grantaire's situation.

"Why? If he doesn't know how I feel, I don't care if our friends find out as long they promise not to tell him anything, ever."

Combeferre rolled his eyes. "Samuel, please, listen to me..."

"Promise it, Mathias. You're my best friend, please! It's important!"

 _"He really is like a child."_ Combeferre thought again.

"Samuel, you have to talk to him. You have to, ok?"

"No! I won't do anything like that, I don't want to!"

"But you have to! Talk to Grantaire, R, the cynic, the drunkard, Benôit, however you want to call him, as long as you go him and tell him everything."

"You think I'm an idiot."

"You wanted some advice, didn't you? I’m doing my best based on what I know. Okay? That’s all.”

"And what do you know? That it's better to get it off your mind, no matter what? That it's better to risk and make a mistake rather than do nothing and have regrets? I don’t need stock phrases, Combeferre! What if I want him to be my biggest regret, rather than lose him forever? Have you thought of that?"

A new, long pause, then Combeferre replied: "As I said before, it’s really not up to me.”

The calm with which the other had spoken, as if he were reading from a book or reciting by heart, irritated Enjolras as much as the words themselves.

"What the fuck do you mean it's not up to you?"

"Exactly what I said, and do not even think that I'm just washing my hands of it! You're the smartest person I know, Enjolras: you may be inexperienced, but not even love can have made you so stupid!"

The revolutionary gasped. When he tried to argue back, a hand slipped his phone out of his hand startling him visibly. Enjolras turned around and found himself staring at Jehan's smiling face while the poet spoke with Combeferre, oblivious that his sudden appearance had left the leader flabbergasted.

"Combeferre? It's Jehan. I'm taking Enjolras with me, do not worry about anything. I'm going to take him home, ok? Kisses. Yep. Yeah, I agree. We'll talk later. Say hello to Èp for me. Kisses."

The poet literally smacked a resounding kiss before ending the conversation, then he gave the phone back to Enjolras. He studied his friend for a long time, and when the leader looked away, Jehan laid a hand on his cheek wet with tears forcing Enjolras to look at him again. Feeling Jehan's skin against his own, Enjolras remembered he had cried and blushed with shame.

The little poet smiled sadly. "I had only crushes until I was seventeen or eighteen. With Montparnasse it was anything serious anyway and with Courf it has been love at first sight for both of us, so I can't even imagine how much you're suffering... but let me say that seeing you reduced to this state is enough to break my heart. None of us had any idea that you were so much in pain and I apologize for making you feel embarrassed." he took Enjolras' hand in his, shook it, and said "Follow me."

"Where are we going?" the blond wanted to know, uncertain.

"Oh, don't worry, you only have to cross the road." Jehan assured him.

Enjolras followed his gaze and saw the poet's car - an old Citroën 2CV which still worked perfectly, properly repainted in mint green - parked in a double row; from the back seat Courfeyrac, Marius and Cosette were waving at him - the girl was sitting in her boyfriend's lap.

"Come on, you don’t want to miss the others' excuses. I assure you that Courf can be even more clumsy than Marius when he tries to fix a mess. We also carry rich gifts for you, by the way."

Enjolras looked at him quizzically.

"Painkillers, honey." Jehan explained.

 

***

"Marius... I think that's enough." Cosette said after her boyfriend had gone on to apologize to Enjolras for ten minutes; each new sentence which got out of his mouth seemed to make the others' embarrassment grow exponentially.

"God, Marius, you're the only one who didn't misunderstand and now you're apologizing anyway? What should we do? Set ourselves on fire like Tibetan monks?" an exasperated Courfeyrac complained, even if he was secretly grateful that Marius had somehow overshadowed his embarassing apology – asking Enjolras' forgiveness hadn't been an uplifting moment for both of the boys, admittedly.

"What’s really important” Cosette said "is that any misunderstanding is now clarified."

"And no one, absolutely no one will say anything to Grantaire, since this decision is up to Enjolras. Is that clear?" Jehan said in a tone that brooked no objection.

From the back seat came three half-hearted “Yes’s”.

Enjolras sighed, resting his head against the window.

There was no way the question couldn't be asked, of course by Courfeyrac. "And when are you thinking of telling him, exactly?"

"Never."

"You're kidding, right?"

"Cosette, it's Enjolras' choice."

"You mean the choice of throwing away the chance to be happy, Jehan? Because that's what he's doing. Enjolras, we all love you dearly and respect the fact that you need some more time to take courage, but you can't be serious about never confessing your feelings to Grantaire..."

"You'd be such a beautiful couple!" Marius interjected, patting the leader’s shoulder.

Courfeyrac nodded firmly. "Maybe not as perfect as me and Jehan, but not even a shameful pairing obsessed with chocolate hearts, stuffed unicorns and enough cotton candy to induce diabetes, like Cosette and Marius."

"Hey!"

"I am the voice of truth, Cosette, whether you like it or not."

Enjolras scowled: the conversation was taking precisely the direction that he wanted to avoid. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but like I said it will never happen, so I’d be very grateful if you could get over it."

"No." replied the other Amis in unison, earning a surprised and concerned look by the revolutionary.

"Well, what's keeping you from going to him and telling him: R, I beg you, I definitely want you to tak..."

"... tell me if you want to be my boyfriend!" Jehan hastened to finish the sentence, of course not using the same words Courfeyrac had in mind.

Thankfully, Enjolras was really unable to grasp any sexual innuendo when someone was dying to make one

"Grantaire despises me." he said.

The car braked sharply, startling everyone.

"What was that?" Enjolras asked, peering outside the window in search of what had caused the braking. He didn't notice that no one else said anything, nor the shocked gazes they turned towards him.

The poet shrugged. "I must get around to changing the brakes."

The car kept travelling as if nothing had happened, and so on went the grueling dialogue inside. Enjolras frowned: his friends clearly didn't want to just let it go.

"Enjolras, dear, Grantaire doesn't despise you at all."

"Yeah, as if!"

"Cosette is right, oh fearless leader." Courfeyrac urged "Do you think that he would actually come to all our meetings, if he didn't care?"

The revolutionary bit his lip to avoid a rude remark. Why the cynic continued to come to the Musain was perhaps the most delicate point of the whole question, as well as the most important evidence, in Enjolras' opinion, that Grantaire amused himself pestering him.

"He doesn't care. He doesn't care about anything, he doesn’t believe in anything.”

"He believes in you." Cosette said.

Enjolras had heard that same refrain coming from the cynic's lips so many times, perhaps too many to believe that those words were spoken with conviction, rather than as a joke. The fact that R repeated them often at the end of their quarrels only made Enjolras more sure. It was inconceivable that his friends had fallen into the trap instead, believing in such a blatant lie.

"He keeps coming to the meetings just because he likes to make a fool of me with his damned sarcasm."

"Well, it seems to me that during your arguments, no matter how harsh they are, you become even more motivated to defend your ideas." Courfeyrac commented "It's like R's objections add fuel to your flames, in a positive way. He behaves like that in order to stimulate you and he succeeds like no other, Enjolras. There has never been a time in which you have appeared ridiculized or your ideas have actually been diminished by Grantaire. Quite the opposite, I'd say."

Enjolras looked back at his friend as if he didn't recognize him. In fact he knew very well that side of Courfeyrac; his ability to be telling jokes one minute then the next, seemingly out of the blue, making a deadly serious and perfectly logical comment. Enjolras had always found it fascinating. Now, however, he hated it.

"Well said, my love." the poet said whilst the others nodded.

"Your arguments are never stupid or useless; they are terrifying and beautiful at the same time. I have always to make an effort to look away." Cosette admitted.

"Yeah, it's a bit like looking at a burning forest or something like that."

"Marius.... that was actually good!"

"Thank you." the young man smiled and started to kiss his girlfriend.

"Pontmercy, if you dare making out with Cosette when you are glued to my side, I swear to God that you'll never be able to have kids!" Courfeyrac hissed, making Marius blush violently.

"What we're trying to make you understand, Enjolras," carried on Jehan "is that between you and R there's incredible chemistry."

"Yeah, like between fire and a tree. Except that the tree would rather not get burned to a crisp. Seriously, Marius, that was a really good comparison!" snorted Enjolras sarcastically.

Courfeyrac snapped: "Oh, for Baby Jesus' sake, Enjolras! How can you be so stubborn?"

"Enjolras, I’m telling you that it’s a good thing! Ok, maybe Marius' metaphor is not so accurate, but the point is that you and Grantaire stimulate each other!"

The blond raised an eyebrow skeptically. "You call it stimulating, I call it torturing. He only comes to waste time at my, or rather our expense.”

The car almost braked sharply a second time. Jehan looked at Enjolras with such a feral intensity that the revolutionary frowned.

"First, what you feel for Grantaire can be messed up as much as you want, but don’t you even dare to insinuate that his presence was ever a burden for me or for the others, because you're wrong. Second: I know for sure that there have been times in which R has come to the Musain although he had actually something else to do, I'm talking about commissions or other works for classes, yet he has come, staying until the end and then going home to work until dawn. Third: believe it or not, Enjolras, but on the rare occasions in which R could not come your speeches were boring!"

Enjolras turned a beweildered look at the poet.

 _"Oh God, I beg you..."_ Cosette prayed to herself noticing her friend's expression.

Courfeyrac cleared his throat. "There's something going on between you two. Maybe you're not expressing it in the best way, but I swear it's there, Enjy. Anyone can see it!"

Enjolras' gaze went from puzzled to terrified. "Anyone who? Even... Bahorel? Joly?!"

Courfeyrac couldn't help raising his eyes to heaven. "Oh yes, my obtuse leader! Feuilly, Bossuet, Musichetta, the Eiffel Tower and the debris at the bottom of the Seine! We all can see your fucking alchemy, except you!"

Enjolras bent in on himself - not that it was difficult, since the limited space of the car obliged him to stay almost curled up already – and groaned, face covered by his hands.

The reassuring voice of Combeferre came back to him: _"No, he doesn't have any clue."_

But everyone knew, so perhaps Combeferre was wrong or lied. Maybe even Grantaire...

"What about Grantaire? Does he know?" the blond asked. He needed to be sure. If Combeferre had lied, for modesty or just to calm him down, it was unlikely that all the other Amis would do the same: in case Grantaire had discovered something, at least one of their friends would have to admit it.

"No, Enjolras. I swear that he does not suspect anything." was Jehan's answer, whose exasperation was becoming palpable. After him, the other three Amis swore as well.

"Holy Indian cow, why do you even wonder? You don’t even realize when someone hits on you, you’re so blind when it comes to flirting, what do you want to understand about erotic alchemy? Trust our experience and get over it!" Courfeyrac exclaimed.

"Someone has tried to hit on me?!"

The little poet sighed. “Please Enjolras, don't make me feel like facepalming hard when I'm driving!”

Courfeyrac's eyes lit up with glee and he raised his hands in a gesture as to say "See? Told you!"

Cosette came to his aid. "Just to give you an example, let's say that not all of the girls..."

"... or the boys..." Courfeyrac pointed out.

"... that come at the Musain do so because they're actually interested in the cause."

The revolutionary's look was of pure horror: who in their right mind would waste time with debates and demonstrations of students just in order to... what? Have a chance to see a certain person? It was definitely disturbing. Stalking 1.0, as a minimum.

"That's the most stupid thing I've ever heard." he said.

"Oh, please! You can't even hear wolf-whistles! "

That conversation was officially disorienting poor Enjolras.

"Whistles... as a form of disagreement?"

"No, you moron, whistles in the sense of... mmm!" whatever Courfeyrac meant - and it was highly likely that it was a comment too... honest for the revolutionary's ears – it was blocked by Cosette's hand.

"Enjolras, even my parents wonder why you don't have a relationship despite all the people that flirt with you. And you know that my _papa_ is the most discreet man in the world."

“Well, Cosette, we all agree that Valjean is a saint, but you have to admit that Javert, on the other hand, pries into others' fucking business like it's his actual job!"

"Courf, what the hell?! That's absolutely not true! Just because he's a police Inspector, it doesn't mean that..."

"Every time he comes to pick you up at Jehan's flat he asks me when Enjolras will decide to remove the invisible barricade in front of his bedroom!"

"Ohmygod!" the girl cried, shocked.

"Courf, for heaven's sake, shush!" Jehan rebuked his boyfriend.

"Oops!... Sorry." Courfeyrac said as he noticed - too late – the colour Enjolras' face had taken. Ok, maybe reporting Javert's comment wasn't a good move: no one would have liked finding out that your sex life - or lack of it - was of interest to their nemesis.

When everything seemed to be embarrassing enough, Marius thought it was up to him to comfort Enjolras.

"Don't worry!" he said with a wide, encouraging - at least in theory - smile "Javert can say the craziest shit! Do you know that when we are alone he call me Moon Moon? I mean, what the hell does that even mean? It does not have any sense!"

Courfeyrac almost pissed himself laughing. Seriously.

The car pulled up along a sidewalk and Enjolras was about to get out, but when he looked out the window his fingers clenched around the handle with a deadly hold.

"We’re in front of the apartment." the blond said.

"Exactly." was the poet's reply.

"I mean, _my_ apartment. Weren't we supposed to go to your flat?"

"Nope. I drove around the block three times."

"I find the fact that you didn't notice it quite funny!" Courfeyrac said.

Jehan laid a hand on Enjolras' arm, rubbing it gently. "Shall we go?"

The revolutionary turned to stare at the front door of the apartment building with a sense of unease.

"I don't..." he began, not daring to finish the sentence.

He didn't have any idea whether, during his absence, Grantaire had woken up and returned to his flat, or if he was still asleep on the couch.

 _"What the hell do I do?"_ he wondered as he felt panic growing and his breathing quickened _"I really can't see him right now."_

"Enjolras." Jehan's calm voice woke him "There's nothing to be afraid of.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I think Jehan is Enjolras' fairy godmother or something...  
> Comments and kudos make my day!
> 
> "Dies Irae" is the title of a medieval hymn about... rage. It has been set to music by Mozart and many others.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eponine is confused, Combeferre is jealous, bets are made and Jehan had had enough.

"I just don't get it." Èponine said sitting on the bed by Combeferre's side, with a bowl of müesli arranged between her folded legs "Those two have finally done the nasty and then Enjolras doubts Grantaire's love for him the morning after? It doesn't make sense."

Combeferre was puzzled as much as his girlfriend, if not more. From the moment he had spoken with Enjolras, he had reviewed their call several times in his mind and had to admit that something wasn't quite right.

"Maybe..."

"Unless last night something inside of them clicked and they jumped on each other driven by pure animal lust." she went on while slicing a banana into the müesli "This might explain Enjolras' doubts. But... I don't know, giving into passion so suddenly and without confessing his feelings to Enjolras is not a behavior that I would expect from Grantaire."

The medical student knitted an eyebrow with a worried look.

"Am I wrong or you are using a butterfly knife?" he asked, eyes fixed on the blade which, in his imagination, was associated more easily with street delinquency rather than domestic use.

Eponine shrugged. "I know R and I'm sure at one hundred and twenty percent he would never touch Enjolras without confessing his feelings first, unless last night the Miracle of Miracles happened."

"Please tell me what that is supposed to mean?"

"That for some obscure reason Enjolras went to R and told him bluntly _"Grantaire, fuck me"_ or something. In that case, it goes without saying that Grantaire's brain would have been reduced to such a mess so that he would have obeyed without objection."

Now Combeferre's eyes were glued to Èponine's straight face, the butterfly knife forgotten in the blink of an eye.

"Stop staring at me, it's rude."

"Are you suggesting that Enjolras... my dear childhood friend... that tall, blond guy with blue eyes who presides at the meetings at the Musain and, practically speaking, considers sex a huge waste of time and energy... seduced Grantaire?!"

"Why are you so shocked? I don't know how Enjolras was in the past, but if he's interested in Grantaire it's obvious that he’s changed his opinion about sex. Especially if they’ve slept together." she then stifled a laugh.

Combeferre frowned, baffled. He shook his head: still unconvinced. "In my opinion, it's more probable that it's Grantaire’s fault: this morning he might have said or done something that caused Enjolras distress."

"Oh sure, silly me! I dared imply that actually your virginal childhood friend can have a sex drive! It must be R, the perverted corrupter of innocents and, at the same time, the fucking idiot capable of ruining everything the morning after!"

"Come on, do you think it's normal to ask the guy you're convinced will never reciprocate your feelings to have sex with you, out of the blue?!"

"Why, do you think Enjolras is normal? Admit it, neither you can fully understand the way his mind works! Look, I know that those two idiots bicker constantly, but Grantaire would rather die than hurt Enjolras in any way, especially once they found out that they love each other!"

"Then how do you explain that, when he called me, Enjolras wasn't at home? They must have had a quarrel so furious that Enjolras left the apartment because he couldn't stand Grantaire anymore!"

Combeferre stopped. The very idea that the cynic might somehow hurt Enjolras' feelings frightened him. Before the medical student's eyes appeared the image of his best friend wandering through the streets of Paris, alone and heartbroken because of his first love. And the very day after he had sex for the first time.

_"If Grantaire has done anything, I swear..."_

The thought was brutally frozen by Èponine's look.

"Are you telling me Enjolras wasn't at home? Like not at your apartment?"

"Uhm... y-yes?" Combeferre stuttered.

"Outside the house. On foot. After spending the night with _Grantaire_?"

Every word gave the impression of having been chosen with a precision that reminded the medical student of that used in a surgery, perhaps because Èponine's stare looked more and more like a scalpel almost with every single letter she pronunced. Poor Combeferre felt a strong shiver run down his spine.

"Yes, he wanted me to pick him up. Why does it matter?"

Rolling her eyes, she sighed as if Combeferre had just said the stupidest thing of the decade.

"My love, I don't know what the fuck you understood speaking with Enjolras, but he’s definately not had sex with Grantaire. Thanks for making me believe it though.”

Her words surprised Combeferre and made him feel relieved at the same time. But still...

"Wait a minute. Enjolras told me that Jehan, Combeferre, Cosette and Marius know already! "

"And how do they know? Have they read it on Facebook?! Do you think Enjolras would tell someone he’s just lost his v-card, especially to Courf and Marius... before you? Combeferre, stop fussing: Enjolras is still pure."

"How can you be so sure?"

That expression again, as if Èponine was explaining something very obvious to a particularly slow child.

"Because if our candid, innocent leader had really slept with Grantaire, now it would be impossible for him to wandering through the streets as if nothing happened.” A mischievous, no, a lewd smile spread across her face.

Combeferre did not have a good feeling...

"What‘s that supposed to mean?" he asked, wide-eyed.

Èponine studied him from beneath her long lashes, grinning; she opened her mouth to speak, but then stopped as if she had second thoughts; after a moment she said quietly: "If they had finally consummated their love, I doubt that Grantaire would let Enjolras get out of bed so soon, after three years of sexual frustration."

Combeferre nodded in silence, although still uncovinced.

Fiftee minutes later, as he and Èponine were brushing their teeth side by side in the bathroom, Combeferre dared to ask, blushing furiously.

"Actually you mean that Grantaire is... well... big, r-right?"

The girl couldn't help but chuckle at her lover's embarrassed expression. "More or less."

"No, Èp, you have to tell me now!"

"Mmmh, you jealous?"

"I'm just worried that..."

"Oh my God, I can't believe it! You really fear for Enjolras' safety?!"

"Should I? By the way, how did you find out about...? "

She huffed with an exasperated look: admittedly, watching Combeferre so shocked was fun, and if he were any other guy, Èponine would have happily kept him in suspense for days. But she was a good girlfriend and loved Combeferre, so she couldn't bring herself to torture him.

"Please don't hyperventilate, my love. R doesn't hide any monster in his pants: let's say that it's rumored he's quite above average, enough to earn a reputation among the girls at the campus and even outside the university, but as far as I know he hasn't killed any of them yet."

Combeferre looked like a child again: this time not like a slow one, but rather a child who wanted a puppy. And then discovered that the puppy had been given to some other kid.

"Just rumors and nothing more, eh?"

Eponine turned to stare at him coldly. "Fuck, are you for real?"

“Well, you seem quite informed and... "

"Christ, that's disgusting! I've known him since we were teenagers, it would be practically incest!"

"I was just saying..."

"... bullshit, that's what! I happen to know a couple of girls he dated and rumors like that spread very easily anyway, that's all!"

"Sorry, I wasn’t trying to imply that you and... ugh!" Combeferre groaned.

The girl sighed and gave her boyfriend a little hug.

"Never mind." she said "I'm just angry because those two morons haven't done anything naughty, so I need to calm down. Where did you say that Enjolras is, right now?"

Combeferre wiped his mouth with a towel. "With Jehan."

She nodded, suddenly more serene. "Good. Whatever happened, now your virtual little brother is in good hands."

"Èp, Enjolras and I are the same age."

"Whatever."

Yes, Eponine had quite a temper, but she was a good girlfriend. A very, very good girlfriend... So she didn't tell Combeferre that, if he really wanted to envy Grantaire, he had better turn a blind eye on the artist's physical endowment and directly focus on his freaking stamina.

 

***

"Enjolras, get out of the car." Jehan repeated, smiling quietly to the revolutionary on the other side of the window.

"No."

"Come on, leader, it's your own apartment: you'll have to come back home, sooner or later." Courfeyrac joked.

"I hope it will be _soon_ , because my legs are starting to go numb."

"Marius, please, be quiet."

"But Cosette, it's true!"

Courfeyrac huffed in exasperation and, after fiding the right lever, pushed the driver's seat forward and got out of the 2CV; then he planted himself beside the poet, stretching his legs, back and neck with ostentation and worrying snaps of bones, not holding back a single groan, oblivious to the stares of the passers-by. Jehan rolled his eyes.

"You just had to come still wearing my robe, didn’t you?" he whispered, staring at his flowered kimono: it seemed even shorter on Coufeyrac. Dangerously short.

Courfeyrac shrugged. "I have nothing to hide. The three of you just wasted time getting dressed."

"Ok, but if you get arrested for indecent exposure and need my help, I won't have any of it."

The other didn't seem to have even heard the threat and leaned forward to look Enjolras straight in the face; behind Courfeyrac, a woman gasped "Oh my God!", but none of the guys turned around.

"Ok, Enjolras, the deal is: you go back home right now or I do. And God help you if I find R still there."

The blond turned to him slowly, as if his head had been planted on a pivot; his eyes were glassy and threatening. "You wouldn't dare."

"Fuck, it's my apartment too! Plus my boyfriend here can't wait to see me put on a pair of trousers."

"Maybe Grantaire is already back at his house." Cosette said in an attempt to reassure Enjolras.

"Yeah, right! I've seen him sleeping until after noon in places far less comfortable than my couch!" snorted Courfeyrac.

"Shush you!” the girl snapped.

Jehan was making an effort to stay calm: he loved Courfeyrac to bits, but with him in the way it was becoming impossible to convince Enjolras.

"Enjolras, I could come with you, what do you think?" the poet offered; he was quick to curb any possible protest by Courfeyrac with a resolute gesture of the hand. A glimpse in Enjolras' eyes encouraged Jehan to continue: "Ok, look, there are two possibilities: Grantaire may already be gone as Cosette said, or, he may be still asleep on the sofa. If you don't feel like seeing him right now, you can shut yourself in your room and wait for him to go away. "

The advice was so idiotic that Jehan had the feeling that his mouth twisted in a disgusted grimace as he spoke, but, since Enjolras kept behaving like a dumb teenager, maybe that was exactly the suggestion he needed.

Cosette laid a hand on the revolutionary's shoulder to encourage him.

"Honestly I don't understand why you fear seeing him so much. Ok, maybe you're still embarrassed because of our misunderstanding, but you have our word Grantaire is oblivious of your feelings, so what’s the problem?"

Enjolras was biting his bottom lip and, hearing Cosette's words, he gritted his teeth almost to the point of drawing blood.

"You all managed to find out what I feel for him," he said in a tone so low that the others had to lean toward him to hear "so what makes you so sure that he's the only one who doesn't know anything yet?" Enjolras licked his bruised lips and laughed nervously "It's clear that I’ve not been as discreet as I wanted, so you have to admit that I have my reasons to be terrified by the possibility."

The choice of the word _terrified_ didn't go unnoticed to his friends.

"Enjolras, darling... If he had guessed..."

"What, Jehan? He would talk about it with any of you? "

"Well, yes. "

"Do you really consider impossible that he might have decided to never tell anyone?"

In the blond's mind, that possibility was quickly becoming a certainty. The cause of Grantaire's silence appeared crystal clear, obvious, the one and the only.

The cynic despised him, didn't he? Consequently discovering that he was Enjolras' object of desire had to be in his opinion the best fucking godsend, a very good reason to insist with his sarcastic comments at every damned opportunity, something that could be used to make them sharper, something able to make their effect even sweeter and more enjoyable.

To think that Grantaire hadn't missed a meeting at the Musain in three years. Shite...

Enjolras let out a strangled groan.

"Maybe that's why he hates me."

Courfeyrac, Cosette and Marius glanced at each other nervously. They knew they couldn't admit that the famous chemistry between Enjolras and Grantaire hadn't been revealed by the blond's supposed lack of attention to hide his own feelings - on the contrary, he had been so good that his confession, that morning, was a real surprise for everyone. No, it was the artist's behavior to betray, openly and continuously, the strong bond between him and the revolutionary.

Instead, Jehan wasn't nervous at all. The leader's last words had made his look so serious and determined that, when the other three turned to look at him, they held their breath waiting.

Jehan had just taken an important decision.

He opened the car door and said to Enjolras: "Now you come with me."

When other was about to protest, the poet grabbed his hand and pulled, forcing him to get out.

"Jehan..."

"Don't worry, Enjolras. I just want to talk, nothing else."

Enjolras wanted to resist, to say that they could talk in the car, but something inside him urged him to follow the poet. Turning back a second, he saw the others smile at him fondly. Courfeyrac raised his hand in a poor imitation of a military salute, his smile was warm and encouraging.

 

***

Several blocks away, Bossuet was staring at the screen of his phone thoughtfully.

Almost an hour before he had received a message from Courfeyrac - _"Tonight I want all of you at Jehan's: I've great news!"_ \- that had intrigued him a lot, but just as he was typing a reply, asking for some clue, he had received a second message of a different tone: _"You are allowed to conjecture with Joly and Musichetta, but don't say a word to the others or it'll be my great pleasure to bend your legs on the wrong side."_

Then Courfeyrac was found mysteriously off-line, something never happened before.

"You'll see, Courf is going to propose to Jehan!" Joly had exclaimed after reading the messages.

Musichetta had disagreed: "It's more likely to be Marius to take the plunge."

"But both he and Cosette have to graduate first!"

The girl had shrugged at Bossuet's weak objection: "If it was up to him, they would be married from the first week. Maybe he just can't wait anymore."

"Valjean is going to kill him!"

"Please, that man is pure kindness!"

"What if Cosette is pregnant?"

They had almost howled with laughter.

"In that case Marius is dead meat for real."

Bossuet had chuckled. "Javert does looks like someone who knows exactly where to hide a body." his lovers' stares had made him go serious "Come on, don't tell me it's just me."

"You think Cosette might really be pregnant?" Joly had asked doubtfully.

"No, that girl is very conscientious.”

Joly had insisted: "I say that the happy couple will be Courfeyrac and Jehan!"

The girl's eyes had sparkled. "Why don't we make the bet official?"

"Fifty euros?"

"Nice try, baby, but my next bag costs about one hundred and fifty."

Both the boys had beenshocked, but Joly had kept holding Musichetta's defiant look and had offered his hand to seal the bet.

"Bossuet, may we count you in?"

The other had dismissed the offer with a smile. "One hundred and fifty euro? With my chronic bad luck? I'm not crazy, guys!"

In the end it seemed to Bossuet that both hypotheses were missing something... He didn't know how to explain it, but he would have said by instinct that Courfeyrac was hiding something more surprising than an imminent marriage proposal or Marius' probable death. Bossuet scratched his bald head. What could it be?

After an hour spent in deep reflection, a little light bulb lit up.

_"What if...?"_

He didn't even dare to imagine it.

Enjolras and Grantaire… finally together? _That_ would have been first prize news.

No, what was he thinking... Ok, all the Amis would have offered sacrifices to any god - even to a bloodthirsty one - willing to grant the miracle, however the possibility that their common dream could become reality seemed too good to be true.

Musichetta and Joly were still busy trying to imagine in detail what would happen that night at Jehan's and Bossuet watched them in silence.

Ok, if he had wagered, he would have putted his money on Grantaire and Enjolras. However, the stakes were too high and he was too unlucky to risk...

 

***

Courfeyrac, Cosette and Marius looked at the poet and the revolutionary disappearing over the front door with a sense of anxiety and confidence at the same time.

"Any idea on what Jehan’s up to?"

Cosette sighed, leaning his head on her boyfriend's shoulder. "None, my love."

"It seems impossible that Enjolras can be so blind."

"I agree with you, Courf."

To give vent to his tension, Marius started drumming his fingers on the headrest of the seat in front of him. "We should tell him. We should have stop him before he could leave Jehan's apartment and tell him everything, to hell with all the We Must Not Intrude nonsense!"

"No, Marius! We would do a big mess."

"Speak for yourself, girl!" Courfeyrac exclaimed as he sitted in the front seat, the door wide open and his hairy legs crossed with an outrageous nonchalance.

Earlier, leaving Jehan's home, Courfeyrac had take care to hide his phone in the pocket of Jehan's robe. While patrolling the streets nearby to find Enjolras, he had managed to send three messages without that the others would notice.

Two were for Bald Eagle. The third was for Capital-R.

 

**From Courfeyrac to Capital-R:**

_Since you are already at our home, when you wake up ask E how he wants the new flyers. He says he needs them soon. Please don't forget it or he's going to be veeery pissed off._

 

Of course it was a lie, but mostly it was a lie in the style of Courfeyrac. Like all the Amis, he was awere that, contrary to what Enjolras believed, Grantaire would do anything to help the leader in his noble battles: drawing the flyers for the meetings at the Musain or for the umpteenth rally was the only task that Enjolras considered suitable for the cynic, so that the artist waited every new commission with trepidation. Yep, Courfeyrac thought: R would got himself shot rather than miss the opportunity to please Enjolras in the only way he was allowed.

 

***

Once inside the lift Jehan had the distinct feeling that Enjolras was getting a bit paler at each floor. He waited until they got halfway up, then pressed the button to lock the lift, which stopped with a jolt. When the blond gave him a baffled look, Jehan embraced him tenderly.

"My poor, lovesick friend..." he murmured, his face leaning on the chest of the other "I ask your forgiveness. I should have told you the truth sooner."

He felt Enjolras' body tense in his arms.

"Jehan, wait..."

For a moment Jehan doubted he was doing the right thing, but then his hesitation vanished. He wonder if Enjolras had guessed he was about to get the answer he wanted or if his anxiety was caused by another misunderstanding. Honestly, he would not be so surprised if Enjolras was actually afraid of being told that it was really better to get over his one-sided love and forget Grantaire.

It was this possibility that made Jehan go on.

"You have no idea of the way Grantaire behaves when you’re there right? No, you don't, since you're convinced that he hates you. There are so many things about him that you ignore. You can't see how enthusiastic he is when he talks about you when you’re not there; you know nothing of the songs that he writes for you and then never sings, the sketchbooks full of your portraits drawn by heart. You did never see him while he stares fondly at the pictures of you Cosette takes at the rallies, and you don’t know how ashamed he is to ask for a copy, so he never does. You don’t know what it feels like to watch him looking for the perfect gift for you at every birthday or Christmas: he always manage to find it, but then he begs me, Courf or another Ami to pick something else. You've never seen his tattoos, Enjolras. You probably don’t even know that he’s got any.” 

Jehan paused for a long, shuddering breath. Behind his closed eyelids appeared the drawings seen just a couple of years earlier, as he remembered them in the various drafts and then in their final version, tattooed on Grantaire's skin.

"They are so beautiful, Enjolras... He worked on sketches for weeks with all his passion before he got to something that satisfied him, something that could express what he feels in the most honest and pure way, and now he has them on his body forever."

The poet holded his friend tighter and smiled happily: Enjolras' heart was pulsing harder and faster.

Jehan broke away from the embrace. Enjolras' eyes were closed, but big tears were streaming down his face anyway. For a moment the heavy breathing coming from his parted lips was the only audible sound. Then a sharp metallic noise startled the blond and the lift moved off again.

"I’ve told you the truth, Enjolras. I am not a dreamer convinced that love is everywhere. I am simply a poet and I describe the love I'm sure I can see."

Jehan opened the door and waited for Enjolras to get out.

"We were convinced that it wasn't up to us to show you the truth, and I’m sorry that that was the wrong thing to do. It seems that we were as blind as you two."

A light kiss on the revolutionary's cheek, then the lift went down leaving Enjolras alone, staring at the door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, yeah, in my headcanon R is great in bed (and no, he can't sleep for hours, ah ah). Brace yourself, Enjy...


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac is pleased, Marius is Marius, Combeferre is slightly nervous.

"Guys, he's coming back!" Courfeyrac hissed when he spotted his boyfriend.

Inside the car, everyone held their breath as if they were about to dive from a very high cliff overlooking the sea. Jehan was alone and his expression was, if possible, even more serious than when he'd dragged Enjolras with him.

The poet sat down, closed the door with a thud and stayed silent for a few moments, increasing the anxiety of the other three.

"I told him." he finally confessed.

Behind him, Cosette groaned and Marius muttered “No, you didn't...".

Although Jehan had expected this sort of a reaction, he wasn’t at all sorry for what he’d said to Enjolras; instead, what made him nervous was that now they had to wait.

 _"It's all right."_ he kept repeating to himself _"It's done."_

Yet the slight lump in his throat wouldn't disappear.

The gentle touch of Courfeyrac's hand against his cheek woke him from his thoughts.

"Jehan."

The poet turned to look at his lover and, almost unconsciously, pressed his face against the palm caressing him. He closed his eyes as a voice rang out.

"Why did you tell him? We might as well have done so from the very beginning, and all together!"

This was exactly the kind of criticism that Jehan had expected to receive from Courfeyrac; so he was relieved instead to hear the words coming from Marius’ mouth. Jehan smiled in relief and blinked his eyes open to find Courfeyrac looking at him with shining eyes full of pride and tenderness.

"You did the right thing." Courfeyrac said, breaking off, with those few words, the flood of complaints spurting from Marius' mouth.

With faltering voice, Cosette asked: "How did it go?"

Jehan repeated briefly what he had told Enjolras.

"I left him at the door of the apartment. He was... crying, you know? At this point, he really can’t have any more doubts. I just hope fear won't play a nasty trick on him... and that Grantaire hasn't already gone back home!" he concluded with a nervous laugh.

"Oh, don't worry!" Courfeyrac said and, in order to hide his Cheshire Cat smile, he leaned over to give Jehan a kiss on his hair "I have a good feeling about it."

"Everything is straight, then!" Cosette exclaimed clapping her hands happily "I can't quite believe it! Jehan, you did great!"

Actually, she was a bit disappointed not to have been present when Enjolras had understood the real nature of Grantaire's feelings: after all, no one could deny that it was a historic moment, in its own way, and that it'd soon end in the annals of Les Amis de l'ABC. Oh well, the girl considered philosophically: at least she had been among the first friends to discover that Enjolras was in love with R! Certainly Èponine was going to force her to report in minute detail everything that had happened since the very second Enjolras had arrived at Jehan's that morning. In all likelihood, poor Bahorel would be devastated to find out he’d missed such an epic event. And what about her two fathers' reaction, when she'd give them the news...? Oh, God in heaven! Cosette was already quivering with impatience!

Without thinking twice, she pulled out her phone and began texting frantically. Within a few seconds, the phone started vibrating at closer and closer intervals, announcing a flood of messages that made Jehan frown.

Sensing the poet's stare, Cosette's mouthed: _Èponine_. Jehan nodded silently.

"So those two are together now?" Marius asked after clearing his throat.

Cosette's fingers froze and she stared at her boyfriend. "You don't say?" the girl asked with undisguised sarcasm.

Sometimes Marius could be just impossible!

"Ok, maybe we should wait to have some... confirmation? From Enjolras and Grantaire, I mean." Jehan proposed.

Cosette huffed and Courfeyrac laughed heartily.

"Come on, my love, I guess we all know how it will end! Now the two lovebirds may have to explaine a lot to each other, but after that... " the young man said wiggling his eyebrows with a look worthy of a very street-wise satyr.

The allusion earned him a slight poke on the arm by the poet. "You just can't manage to forget about sex, can you?"

"Nope."

"Never mind, Jehan." Cosette interjected "It's about time for Enjolras and R to put their notorious alchemy to good use!"

Jehan couldn't help to chuckle. "Yeah, I suppose you're right."

"We have to call Combeferre and tell him to stay away from the apartment until further notice." Courfeyrac exclaimed only to add right after that: "Ok, wait, I'll do!"

The sparkle of glee in his eyes reached such intensity that Jehan felt a cold shiver run down his spine.

"Courf..."

The boy waved his hand to silence him. "Shush! Keep quite, guys: I'm putting him on speaker."

At this point Courfeyrac was clearly too excited to be stopped and Jehan fell back against the seat, rolling his eyes resigned.

The phone rang a few times in vain.

"Hi, Courf." came Combeferre's voice.

"'Ferre, my friend, I am ringing to let you know that we've brought Enjolras back home, so he and Grantaire can finally get their shit together... Jehan spoke to him and..."

"I already know everything, thank you very much. Cosette just sent Èponine several messages, explaining what’s happened."

Courfeyrac's expression fell just beforeand he looked daggers at the girl in the back seat of the car.

"What the actual fuck, Euphrasie! You just ruined the surprise effect!" he pouted, deliberately using Cosette's real name, which she hated like poison. Cosette reacted by stucking her tongue out, whilst very casually stroking her cheek with the middle finger.

Across the line, Combeferre cleared his throat. “Well, at least I'm not the only one to misunderstand what happened between Enjolras and Grantaire."

At these words Courfeyrac beamed, grinning like the big bad wolf in fairy tales.

"Yeah, about that... perhaps, rather than misunderstanding, we simply anticipated the news a few hours early."

The following silence was like heavenly music to Courfeyrac's ears.

"What do you mean?" asked Combeferre suspiciously.

"I mean that, if I were you, I'd seek refuge at Èp's and avoid our apartment for a day or two, because I bet my grandmother's ashes that our dear lovebirds are having sex right now, reaching levels of debaouchery that even I can hardly imagine! "

Perfect, icy silence. Then...

"Go fuck yourself, Courfeyrac!”

The call ended abruptly, making Courfeyrac burst in a loud, sobbing laugh.

"I totally agree with 'Ferre." Jehan said flatly.

"Me too." Cosette echoed. Marius just nodded.

Courfeyrac needed a few minutes to stop laughing and managing to breath normally again.

"God, I think I laughed so hard that a new pair of abs just popped out!"

"It would be the first."

"You're lying and you know it, Jalan Atthirari Anni!"

Jehan snorted, not impressed in the slightest by the _Game of Thrones_ reference. "If you try to embarrass Enjolras or Grantaire in the same way, I swear I’ll make you pay for it.”

"But Je..."

"You. Will. Pay."

Courfeyrac knew that tone and knew what kind of consequences would follow a transgression, so he hastened to raise his hands in surrender.

"As you wish." he said with an innocent smile, but inwardly he vowed to annoy Combeferre to no end with double meanings and sexual innuendos about Enjolras.

Cosette thought it was the right moment to change the subject of the conversation. "Speaking of bets... who won, in the end?"

"I didn't bet at all." Jehan said reproachfully to the other Amis, all of whom with the exception of himself had gambled on how and when the cynic and their leader would finally get together.

Marius pondered. "Well, certainly not Courfeyrac..."

"Tsk tsk. A real shame!"

"You bet on a scenario which sounded like the plot of a porn movie, so don’t complain, honey!" the poet said, shuddering at the memory of what Courfeyrac's mind had been able to imagine.

"... nor Bahorel. For the same reason." Marius went on.

"Thanks for reminding me of that, Pontmercy."

"As I said: shame!"

Marius seemed intent on counting on his fingers, as if he was mentally reviewing each Ami's bet.

"Gavroche." was the verdict.

" Why I'm not surprised?"

"That's simple, Cosette. Gavroche betted on the fact it'd happen because of some bloody mess caused by Courfeyrac or Marius!" Jehan explained.

"A victory announced."

"Next time we gamble, no matter on what, I'll lay my money on Gavroche's win." Courfeyrac decided.

"Anyway, do you really think that right now Enjolras and Grantaire are...?"

"Marius!"

Courfeyrac pretended to open the door. "If you want, we can go and check!"

"Courf, that’s not funny!"

"I’m kidding!"

"Seriously, I was wondering..." said Marius, this time receiving a slap on the back of the neck from Cosette.

"Dear," she hissed "I highly doubt it's our business!"

Marius scratched his head sheepishly. While Jehan moved off the car, the young Pontmercy took out his phone and stared at the screen as if he were pondering the meaning of life.

"What are you doing?" Cosette asked, obviously suspicious.

"I'm thinking of a new nickname for Enjolras, to put in the phone book."

"A new...?" driven by an unpleasant sense of forebonding, she took the phone out of his hand. What she read made her pale and then flare up so quickly she felt her head dizzy.

" _Lonely Hole_?! Holy shit, Marius, what sort of twat are you?!"

 

***

About ten minutes before Marius got a hot-iron-esque scolding from his girlfriend, at the Thenardier's the sudden sound of something shattering made Eponine rush into the living room. There, she found Combeferre curled up on the sofa and the pieces of the hideous decoratice vase that had been in the corner for ages were spread radially on the floor.

"Did you just destroy the vase with your phone?"

The medical student nodded.

Eponine turned to look at the havoc with admiration. She picked up the phone from the carpet: it was still intact.

"Good thing you have a Nokia."

"Sorry for the vase." the boy said.

"My mother stole it. She liked it a lot."

Combeferre groaned.

"I hated it." she went on "Plus, its colors worthy of a LSD trips gave Gavroche nightmares, when he was little. So the only thing you have to worry about is that you're going to become the hero of that little shit."

"I have more important things on my mind..."

The girl sat at Combeferre's side, sighing heavily. "What did Courfeyrac say to make you so angry?"

"Nothing."

"By any chance, is it a _nothing_ concerning Enjolras?"

Combeferre raised his head to meet Èp's gaze. "I knew from the beginning that they loved each other, and yet I have this feeling now, like it happened all of a sudden. Does that make any sense to you?"

"Yes, it does. Until yesterday, they argued all the time."

"What now?"

"I don't know, 'Ferre. We'll see. But you know very well Grantaire is the only person in the world that can make Enjolras happy... and vice versa."

He ran a hand over his face. "I don't know what to do."

"Oh, it's easy!" Eponine told him "You don't have to do anything!"

The look he gave her was priceless. She had to resist temptation to grab her phone and take a picture of Combeferre.

"Love, you're still worried about the rumours, aren't you?" she asked, trying in vain to keep a straight face.

"Believe it or not," he admitted after swallowing another lump of saliva "It's not Grantaire that worries me."

"Yeah..."

"It's Enjolras."

"Uh?"

Combeferre felt his cheeks reddening so quickly they started to burn. He had to turn away from Èponine's surprised face in order to continue.

"Grantaire is his first love and, by his own nature, Enjolras throws himself entirely into what he loves. You can tell it by the way he devotes himself to the cause... but now we're talking about feelings, Èponine. Enjolras isn't a machine with no emotions: he's simply used to keep them locked inside himself, and if you had met his parents, you would understand why. I'm not surprised that he needed Jehan's help to realize Grantaire is in love with him. Everyone takes a leap into the unknown every time they fall in love, but for Enjolras it's different. It's so much more... Before meeting Grantaire, he never bothered himself to know love. He hasn't even experienced it in second person, so to speak, paying attention to some friends' crushes out of curiosity; even less he learned something about love through his parent's relationship. When I say that a child has more experience than him, I'm not joking."

Emotion forced Combeferre to make a pause, whilst Èponine caressed his hair gently.

"I consider myself an expert when it comes to shitty parents.” the girl murmured “Believe me, the fact that Enjolras never mention his family speaks volumes to me."

Combeferre looked back at his girlfriend and squeezed her hand in his.

"Sometimes I'm surprised that Enjolras is still able to have feelings, so strong and genuine. I'm very lucky to be his friend. All Les Amis are lucky. But I've known him longer and better than anyone else: perhaps that's why I worry so much and feel the need to protect him."

The girl smiled sympathetically. "It's natural, 'Ferre. None of us can predict how people react to their first love..."

"With Enjolras, it'll be like a goddamn earthquake. Trust me." Combeferre interrupted her.

Èponine seemed to consider his words carefully. "Yeah, I'd say that's a distinct possibility."

"I hope Grantaire is ready."

"He is. It'll be allright, dear."

"I really hope it won't end in a friends with benefit thing, or I'll have to skin R."

Eponine chuckled. "Don't worry, I raised him to the best of principles."

Combeferre sighed, letting Èponine guide him so he lay down on the couch, with his head resting on her tights.

"Ok." he admitted after a few minutes of deep consideration "Maybe I think of Enjolras as a little brother. But just a little bit."

"Mh-mh." Eponine said thoughtfully.

She was now absorbed in reading again the messages that she and Cosette had sent each other before Courfeyrac's call infuriated Combeferre. It was strange how the messages would be able to mesmerize her: she kept staring at them, even though they were very fresh in her memory.

He moved her finger on the screen to read a particular message.

 

**From Cosette:**

_"You realize that our OTP is now canon?! I'm in 7th heaven!!!"_

 

Cosette had always had a gift for synthesis.

Èponine smiled to herself. _"Bravo Grantaire..."_ she thought _"Bravo Enjolras."_

When she felt tears threaten to roll down her cheeks, she felt stupid, but hell, she was so fucking happy...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok guys, thanks for reading and for the kudos and the comments, they really make my day! Next chapter will be long because of Enjolras and Grantaire's confrontation (finally!) and... sexy time. *cough... go R... cough*  
> Anyway, I don't know when I'll manage to post it, I have some priorities like finding a job, so... Sorry for the hiatus! I'll post chapter 5 as soon as possible! I promise I'll do my best with the porn!  
> Thank you again! <3<3<3


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras and Grantaire face their feelings, les Amis go wild.

Enjolras grabbed the doorknob viciously, until his knuckles turned white.

He felt like he had to do so to keep from falling. Everything around him seemed to have turned into a blur, as if suddenly the door, the wall, everything wanted to escape from his sight, confusing him even more.

The young man needed to close his eyes and concentrate on taking large breaths to recover from the dizziness. He hadn't even entered the apartment and he was reduced to this state. How could manage facing Grantaire?

Thinking of the cynic made Jehan's words ring in his head and the meaning of those words made him sweat.

Enjolras needed to see Grantaire, although at the moment he didn’t know if he could.

How strange it was, to be certain that Jehan hadn't lied, and yet feeling, right down to the most remote corner of his being, like he needed to hear those same words from Grantaire, before letting himself believe in them.

Enjolras wiped the last of the tears away with the back of his hand.

 _"It's no use putting it off."_ he said to himself, sniffing and trying to get a grip _"I can do it. I can do it. I need to..."_

He shook his head and the gesture made the world around him clear and steady again. If the key didn't fit into the lock at the first try, it was only because Enjolras' fingers couldn’t stop shaking.

 _"Shite!"_ he swore.

He'd always been used to setting a goal and following the road which led to it without the slightest hesitation or delay: for the revolutionary, to have an aim and know how to reach it was exactly the same thing. Now it was different in so many ways. For the first time in his young life, Enjolras felt that every step that he'd take from then on would no longer depend on his mere will, but also on Grantaire's. And right now he found it very hard even deciding whether he liked it a little at least, or not at all.

Any defense that he'd built around himself over the years, with patience and inflexibility, was about to be lowered.. Knowing that he was going to make them dissolve by himself, rather than seeing them crumble because of someone else, didn't help to calm him down. How was he supposed to do it? Will it work? Would it be enough? And what would happen, after?

Enjolras might see his goal, but not the path.

_"All right. So be it."_

If it really was up to Grantaire to create that path, then Enjolras wouldn't delay any further. They had wasted too much time already.

His jaw stiffened and the muscles around his eyes tensed, giving him that fierce and severe expression with which he faced every challenge.

He opened the door with his eyes already pointed toward the living room, but when he got close he noticed that the sofa was empty. Grantaire was gone. It was as if all the air in Enjolras' lungs was sucked out, almost choking him.

No way...

So the revolutionary was forced to postpone his confrontation with Grantaire, right now that he was sure he couldn't stand waiting anymore! Something inside Enjolras was clutched by an invisible vice. If he hadn't felt such strong frustration, perhaps he'd have laughed for the bitter irony: it seemed that the cynic was able to disappoint him even unknowingly. The shoulder bag was dropped on the floor with a thud and Enjolras ran his hands through his golden curls, fisting them and cursing.

Fuck it, he wouldn't wait any longer! Jehan's confession had triggered too many emotions, too intense and of the kind that Enjolras wasn't particularly good at dealing with: the blond simply couldn't stay inactive. It was like a piece of the imaginary path between him and Grantaire emerged suddenly, with the precision and the obviousness of the most banal opening in a chess game.

He needed to find Grantaire now. He would run to him, at his flat, and then...

The sound of an opening door - the kitchen door, a remote part of Enjolras's mind recordered - made him turn in time to see Grantaire appearing, holding a mug full of steaming coffee.

The raven haired young man was visibly absorbed in his thoughts and hadn't heard Enjolras coming in: when he saw him, he was so startled that he spilled some coffe on the floor. His reflexes and movements weren't those of someone with a hangover going on, the blond noticed; indeed Grantaire seemed quite clear headed.

Enjolras had no idea how much the artist had drunk the night before, but that was irrelevant: the blond knew from experience that Grantaire could hold his booze very well, to the point that he was able to have a row and support his arguments in a logical and perfectly understandable way even after drinking several pints. Grantaire was quite sober, then. He had even tried to fix the his mop of rebellious black curls, long enough to caress his neck. Moreover, he had put on his hoodie again, Enjolras noticed with a pang of disappointment and relief at the same time.

"E-Enjolras!" the cynic stammered, wide-eyed "God, I didn't hear you entering! I've been waiting around for you."

Enjolras couldn't help gulping. Grantaire was waiting for him?

The artist went on, oblivious to the turmoil taking place inside Enjolras.

"S-Sorry for spilling the coffee. I'll see to it." he said in the same servile tone he used every time he volunteered for any task during the meetings at the Musain, regardless of how many times Enjolras dismissed him.

Grantaire set the mug on the table beside him and was about to get back in the kitchen, when Enjolras' voice stopped him.

"Grantaire. Wait."

The other turned. He had already a joke on his lips, the kind that he always said whilst extolling his ardent desire to help the perfect Apollo, but the words disappeared from his mind as soon as he layed eyes on Enjolras again. Only then Grantaire noticed the blond's eyes were red and that some tears were still visible on his cheeks; everything contrasted with Enjolras' severe look, which fell hot like fire on Grantaire's skin. Even hotter than usual.

The cynic swallowed the lump in his throat. He loved and feared that stern expression, able to make him experience something like the rapture of the saints and, at the same time, made him want to curl up at Enjolras' feet and beg for mercy. The artist had wished so many times that his Apollo's gaze was actually made of fire, so that it could burn him whole, body and soul; if such thing were possible, Grantaire was sure he couldn't ask for a more beautiful death.

Enjolras' tears, however, were something new altogether. Since he'd met him, Grantaire had never seen the fearful leader crying. Thinking of it, he was almost certain that even Combeferre and Courfeyrac had once admitted they'd never seen their childhood friend in tears.

Grantaire swallowed again, unsure of what to do.

"Enjolras, have you been crying?"

The other kept staring at him without a word, as if the cynic's disbelief ment nothing to him.

"Right." Grantaire said, nodding to himself "Stupid question, no wonder I asked it. Sorry." and as always, when Grantaire apologized to Enjolras, it was like his own voice bowed in front of the blond. Not that Enjolras had ever noticed it, however: the cynic was perfectly aware that even his apologizing would sound to Apollo like another provocation, words spoken by a fool without a hint of seriousness.

Enjolras seemed to have turned into the marble statue which Grantaire often compared him, but more than a sculpture depicting the Greek god of the sun, he resembled that of an avenging angel with his flaming sword drawn. The artist shifted his weight from one foot to the other, visibly uncomfortable.

Whatever had happened, it had to be something very serious to reduce Enjolras in that state. Grantaire doubted to have enough imagination to guess what it could be.

"What happened?" he asked.

He received no answer again and his anxiety began to become overwhelming. Okay, maybe Enjolras was shaken to the point of not to be able to speak with the usual ease. The very idea gave Grantaire the creeps.

Instinctively, the cynic step in closer.

"Seriously, Enjolras, tell me, please."

 _"Maybe I should call Combeferre. Enjolras never has any problem speaking to him."_ he mused, feeling, as usual, a pang of jealousy toward the medical student.

Wait a second. What if something had happened to Enjolras' dearest friend? Grantaire shivered. No, it couldn't be... But, actually, where was Combeferre now? And Courfeyrac? For some obscure reason Enjolras was devasted and his best friends weren't with him. Worse, his Apollo was here with _him_ , Grantaire, the useless, mediocre guy who was able to get only contempt and irritation from the leader of Les Amis. In any universe blessed by a minimum of logic, such a thing would have been impossible.

"Has... Has something happened to Combeferre?"

The simple question woke the blond from a sort of rêverie. Enjolras blinked, tipped his head slightly to the side and looked Grantaire with a stange expression, like he was sizing him up.

"Should I take it as a no? Ok. Good." the artist murmured, relieved. But then, if Combeferre was still in this world and in good health, why wasn't he by Enjolras' side when the blond had obviously had an emotional breakdown? "Maybe it's Cour..."

"You write songs." Enjolras cut him off abruptly, causing the other to almost choke on air.

It wasn't a question.

"Wha...? W-Wait, what?!" the cynic stammered.

Grantaire was damned if he could guess why his hobby might have something to do with the state in which Enjolras was. In all honesty, the simple fact that Apollo came to know of it was incomprehensible: the artist had always been very careful not to talk about his songs in Enjolras' presence. Even more incredibly, the blond seemed interested.

"Uhm... Y-Yes?"

Enjolras let out a long, shuddering breath; only a very careful observer would have noticed that his expression was slightly more relaxed.

"Good. What do the lyrics talk about?"

Ok, shite, _that_ was an actual question, and Grantaire didn't like it at all! In all likelihood, even in conditions of absolute tranquility he wouldn't have been able to remember the last time he'd written one single verse that didn't make reference to his unrequited love for Enjolras. Trying to remember whilst the revolutionary was staring at him was pure madness.

Grantaire desperately wanted to think of a way to divert the conversation to a less dangerous subject.

He smiled nervously. "Oh, what can I say? The usual things, I suppose. Nothing new. They talk about life in general, memories, love..."

 _"What the fuck?! No! Fuck, I'm just an hopeless jerk!"_ the artist swore internally, barely repressing the urge to punch himself hard.

Enjolras' look softened... or maybe it was just an illusion created by Grantaire's mind? In fact, the young black haired man had just had the umpteenth confirmation that his brain kept a shamefully low profile, when Enjolras was nearby.

"Love?" the leader echoed; he made to take a step forward, but the cynic spoke, stopping him.

"Yes, but you should ask Jehan: after all, it is he who writes the lyrics."

The blond's expression hardened again. Strangely, it didn't bothered Grantaire as much as he would have expected: the sudden stroke of genius with which he had narrow escaped was making him feel like God Himself had descended from heaven in all His glory to stamp a sloppy kiss on his forehead. Just to be clear, that Jehan wrote the lyrics was a blatant lie, since the poet's help had always been limited to tweaking: every time Grantaire presented him a new song, what Jehan would actually do was pestering him for days, begging him to grow a pair and sing those damned songs for Enjolras.

"Are you sure?" the blond insisted, his right eyebrow curved.

Grantaire bit the inside of his reddening cheeks.

"Of course I am." he kept lying, perhaps putting in his tone more vehemence than it was necessary "Listen, Apollo, can you just tell me what's wrong, please? Believe me, I may be a good-to-nothing idiot like you say, but I'm not an insensitive dick, ok? You're worrying me, I mean it, so excuse me if I find irrelevant the fact I write songs!"

Enjolras gasped, taken aback by Grantaire reminding him of the harsh, often cruel epithets with which the leader addressed him. It wasn't what Enjolras wanted to think of right now, not when he was already struggling to stay focused.

"Maybe it's important, instead."

"I don't think so."

"Grantaire..."

"Grantaire my arse, Enjolras! Tell me what the fuck's wrong!" the artist snapped.

Enjolras looked away. He seemed to be in thought and, staring at him, Grantaire couldn't help the fondness which felt rising in his heart. He'd admired those furrowed eyebrows and piercing glaze so many times, at the Musain or when Enjolras charged up a crowd from the stage at an event... Enjolras' beauty was so familiar to him that the artist could clearly see every detail even with his eyes closed. The envelopes of sketchbooks piled at his flat were an irrefutable proof of this.

Suddenly Enjolras' eyes stabbed him again with their usual determination. Then his beloved Apollo spoke, and for Grantaire was like beeing kicked right in the chest, so hard that it took his breath away and his heart skipped a beat.

"Show me your tattoos."

Grantaire's face fell. He paled visibly, as if every drop of blood had been drained from his body.

 _"No. No no no no..."_ he whimpered as an excruciating pain exploded inside him _"God, no, please, no, he can't..."_

In the past years, he had sworn countless times to be ready to do anything for Enjolras; only now he understood he had been a liar, because he would do anything, yeah, except what he'd just been asked.

"W-What?!"

"I said..."

The cynic let out a shout that startled Enjolras. "No!"

Oh, Grantaire didn't need to hear it again. He'd heard perfectly and the blow had been devastating: another one would have ended him. If Enjolras really wanted to say something, the cynic would be infinitely grateful if he could reveal the name of the son of a bitch who had talked to him about the tattoos.

“ _Who...?”_

Only his friends knew the importance of the figures with which Grantaire had marked his skin. The artist had shown them the tattoos spontaneously, happy and proud as he explained the meaning of each drawing and almost feeling a certain impatience whilst letting his friends partaken in his secret. Grantaire had imagined that telling all the others Amis would make it easier to keep it hidden from their leader; it might seem strange, but it had worked, at least for two years. Similarly, the cynic had assumed that his friends wouldn't have said anything to the revolutionary. Instead, it seemed that someone had betrayed him. Grantaire was feeling like he was dying.

“ _Why?”_

They were his friends, his family, the only people he trusted to the point that Grantaire had never feared any harm from them!

Enjolras moved to get closer, but the artist stepped back.

"Grantaire."

The cynic looked at Enjolras with pleading eyes. The pain was gripping his guts so tightly and releasing so much adrenaline that the dark curled man was shivering.

"I-I..." he stammered. He clenched his eyelids, licked his lips and suddenly remembered the only thing that could still save him. He took an unsteady breath: "It's true, I-I've a tattoo. A capital R. I mean, not a great example of immagination, eh?" he laughed nervously, keeping rambling "It's on my ankle, I did it myself at thirteen... with a needle and ink for fountain pens, just to give it a try and piss off my parents. Well, mission accomplished, if you take my meaning, ok? Never been a masterpiece and now it's just horrid, it's almost a blur, but... if you really want to see it..."

"And the others?"

"Christ..." Grantaire wailed in a small voice.

Enjolras moved again and this time the artist was unable to take half a step back that he hitted the wall behind him. The leader raised a hand to laid it on Grantaire's broad chest: he felt the cynic's heart racing under his fingers and the allarming beat vibrated into his skin, until it merge with the one pounding hard in the blond's ears. Enjolras hesitated slightly, then his fingers curled in a fist, gripping the soft hoodie with decision.

"I want to see all of them."

"There are no others."

"You're lying."

"And you're fucking cruel!"

Even the cynic seemed shocked by his own reaction and for a long time the two looked at each other, with Grantaire's heavy breathing as the only sound in the room. Fear and anger had blown the artist's pupils to the point that they had almost eclipsed the intense blue of the irises, leaving two thin circles to emphasize the black.

"You never give up, do you, Enjolras?" Grantaire went on "Who'd have thought that you could be so insensitive? It really is too much, even toward me."

Enjolras winced visibly.

"I don't..."

Whatever he meant to say, Grantaire didn't give him time. Something terrible had trigged inside him.

"You do want to see them? Then do it, do it as much as you want! Never doubt that the miserable drunkard is ready to make any sacrifice just to satisfy Apollo's desires!" he stripped off his hoodie with rage, throwing it on the floor carelessly "And you know what? Until now, I'd hoped to be as lucky and worthy as the other Amis and receive a request, even an order from you, and get my fucking chance to prove how much I care about you! I _hoped_ , do you get it?! What a fine specimen of idiocy I am! When you say I'm pathetic you're absolutely right and, fuck, you don't even realize how much!"

The harsh words were said louder and louder, almost shouted, digging a hole inside Enjolras mercilessly. Grantaire rubbed a hand over his face, contracted into a grimace of pain; he was on the verge of tears.

"Who told you about my tattoos? For fuck's sake, that's so uncalled-for! As if you didn't hate me enough already!" a sudden spark crossed his wide eyes, as if Grantaire ha just realized something. He released a faint gasp. When he spoke again, his voice had become soft and so appealing to spilt Enjolras' heart into pieces. "Is that the reason you cried, then? Am I the one that reduced my Apollo like this? God, you shouldn't cry for me, no... Why should you worry about my feelings? You never did and it's ok, I understand... And if they disgust you so much, then what can I do, eh? I... I can only put an end to my fucking agony and let you be, Enjolras. I promise that's exactly what I'll do: I'll never bother you again. So please, I beg you... stop suffering because of me, okay? You can be sure that I'll be in pain for both of us. I'll even try to forget you, if you want."

Grantaire took a deep, shaking breath, almost as if to pluck up courage for what he was about to do, then he reached for the hem of his t-shirt, lifting it enough to expose the lower part of the torso.

"I knew that our little, disfunctional acquaintance would come to an end, eventually. It's quite poetic, to be allowed to end it by myself... and in order to fulfill your wish, nonetheless! You always say I can't do anything right, but now I can do this for you, Enjolras. You'll see, you'll see..."

Grantaire undressed with a fluid and fast motion. It was as if the tattoos blossomed on his torso gradually, as more and more of the artist's skin was revealed. He bowed his head and remained like this, motionless, with his arms close to the chest and his hands clenched into fists on the t-shirt, covering the pecs and part of the abs.

The ivy leaves were everywhere, elegantly crawling up along the sides of Grantaire's torso and coming down in spirals from the shoulders almost to the elbows: the tattoos spread across the artist's body in a perfectly specular way, giving a sense of naturalness that well combined with the realism of the drawing and the vivid colours. A mere glimpse was enough to understand that the ivy was actually a sort of backdrop for the figures that sprouted between its leaves, as if to unite all of them in one big design.

On the right arm, just below the shoulder, a dark-furred cat licked a gray kitten lovingly.

Enjolras frowned, very confused and a bit disappointed: how were those tattoos supposed to prove Grantaire's feelings for him? He didn't have time to formulate the question in his mind, that another tattoo catched his eye.

Near the clavice there was a moth, its amber wings stretched over the leaves.

A moth. Combeferre's favourite animal since he was five.

Enjolras understood and looked back at the two cats, flabbergasted.

_"Èponine... and Gavroche."_

His gaze moved quickly to Grantaire's left arm. A burning heart with a C engraved on it was closed within a flower crown, held together by a ribbon wich come down along the line of the biceps. On the ribbon was written _"Long live the future!"_ , the title of the poem of which Jehan was most proud of.

Enjolras felt dizzy, but he refused to be overwhelmed by vertigo right now. He stepped back to study the artist's chest, looking for the other tattoos.

 _"Where are the others? Bahorel, Feuilly...?"_ he wondered with impatience _"Where am I?"_

The ivy embraced Grantaire just below the ribs, but there weren't other symbols sticking out among its leaves. That was impossible, Enjolras thought. The tattoos had to be somewhere else, maybe on the artist's back.

The blond was about to ask Grantaire to turn around, when he saw them.

They were barely visible on the right pec, half hidden by a fold of the t-shirt the cynic was still clutching to his chest. It might have been easy, for a careless observer, to take them for mere white and yellow streakings, but they made their way through the ivy piercing and burning some leaves without mercy, just as they were...

_"Fire."_

Grantaire must have sensed that Enjolras had seen that part of the tattoo. Perhaps he had kept covering it because of an afterthought, or to postpone to the very last second the excruciating moment when Enjolras would have undestood. Whatever the reason was, the cynic kept his word and dropped his arms to the sides, showing the tattoo that he cherised the most. He was now resigned to his fate.

He was also so vulnerable and scared that, when Enjolras gave a start, he felt a strong shudder running down his body as well, from head to foot, as if he had just got a shock.

In the center of Grantaire's chest there was a blazing sun: its light looked devasting, as if Enjolras was staring at a real star. The rays were outlined by a few lines, so thin that the black was hardly visible. The tattoo was pure colour: yellow, gold and white melted in a sort of delicate watercolour, but at the same time they exploded in powerful tongues of fire, the movement of which was given by the continuous alternation of shades.

That wasn't a benevolent sun, nor scary. It was a primitive force, inexhaustible and uncontrollable in its absolute beauty.

In the middle of the sun stood an E written in elegant italics.

If this wouldn't be enough to reveal who that tattoo was for, three rays turned into scrolls on which were written the words _Liberté_ , _Fraternité_ and _Egualité_.

A fourth scroll reported a date from three years ago.

Finally, a fifth swayed above the heart and recited: _“I believe in him”_.

Enjolras gasped, covering his mouth with a trembling hand whilst his eyes took in every detail again and again, as if he couldn't bring himself to believe those tattoos were real... and for him.

Indeed the revolutionary was new to love, but even if he'd been more experienced, he would have been unprepared anyway for a love confession so striking. A part of him, the irreducibly rational one, made him briefly consider that only an idiot would got a tattoo dedicated to someone without knowing if their feelings were reciprocated. Even so, he knew he was the actual idiot.

Enjolras had been blind and heartless, convinced that his love was one-sided and that therefore he was the only one who could decide what to do about it. He had been stubbonly sure that was his right to react to his own feelings coldly _,_ trying in every way to make them die as soon as possible, under the illusion that he would be the only one to get hurt. Enjolras hadn't considered the fact that, in any case, Grantaire was a human being and didn't deserve to be offended and suffer because of a love of which he was unaware.

_"Grantaire... My poor, sweet Grantaire..."_

The leader heard the cynic sniffling. Grantaire still had his head bowed and long locks had fallen over the forehead, covering part of his face. It was impossible to see his expression, but Enjolras knew the artist was crying.

Grantaire's lips were moving feverishly without making the slightest sound. After his harsh outburst, the young man had discovered that he couldn't speak anymore: no matter how hard he tried, the words would stay in his head, like they're locked there. Perhaps, he considered, he had finished all his courage. It was just a shame... There were so many things he still wanted to tell Enjolras before disappearing from his life. Things that probably would have irritated the blond even more and would have been forgotten very quickly, but damn, Grantaire needed to say them, no matter what!

First, he wanted to ask his wonderful Apollo's forgiveness for having yelled at him. Okay, he did so almost every time they argued, but now Enjolras had a fucking point: what right had Grantaire to have feelings for him? For that chaste angel who dismissed romance with derogatory words, it might be doubly humiliating fiding out that he was loved by someone so unworthy like the drunkard.

Therefore, Grantaire wished he could apologize for being such a disappointment for both Enjolras and he himself: in three years, he hadn't found a better way to get the leader's attention than provoking him, interrupting his speeches, heaping praises on Apollo even if it infuriated the blond.

God knew Grantaire wished to be like Combeferre or Courfeyrac, instead: the cynic envied the long friendship between the two guys and Enjolras, he was jealous of the memories they shared, memories that he would never know anything about. Yeah, he envied Enjolras' best friends deeply, even knowing how useless and stupid it was. And yet Grantaire had friends, didn't he? Jehan, 'Ponine, Bahorel and Feuilly loved him dearly since they were children. Even Combeferre and Courfeyrac appreciated the artist's company and laughed at his jokes. So why he hadn't be able to earn Enjolras's affection too? Maybe because he had always known that friendship wouldn't have satisfied him at all: he just couldn't be humble or unselfish when it came to Enjolras.

Grantaire hadn't been strong enough, but Enjolras knew already, didn't he? The cynic had an addictive personality: his drinking issues were the perfect demonstration. If he indulged so often in something as disgusting as alcohol, how many chances he'd ever had to avoid attraction for the most beautiful and precious person he'd ever met?

Those were Grantaire's thoughts whilst he let his arms drop to reveal his secret to Enjolras: he remembered and regretted all his failures.

And now, as he obeyed to his love's only order, he couldn't help to be selfish and a liar one last time.

Forgetting his Apollo? It would have been the best thing to do, at this point. But oh, it was painfully impossible...

"P-Please..." Grantaire begged, when he finally found his voice again "Don't hate me, if you can."

The unexpected, hesitant brush of Enjolras' graceful fingers against the unruly hair fallen over his forehead made the cynic raise his head so abruptly that he hit the wall with a thud. White stars exploded and fluttered behind Grantaire's eyelids as he groaned in pain. When he opened his eyes again, he feared that his vision was still blurred by tears, because Enjolras was now standing in his personal space.

Grantaire gaped: he was hallucinating, no doubts about it.

When the fuck did he fall asleep? Had it been a dream all along? How strange... He had just banged his head against the wall and damn, it had been painful! Grantaire pinched himself hard on the right tight for good measure. Yeah, it hurt. But even so it was very difficult to believe that it wasn't some wild dream.

Their bodies weren't touching, but their proximity was more than enough to make Grantaire feel the warmth radiating from Enjolras and his moist breath, which caressed the cynic's cheek with every gentle puff. Grantaire hadn't ever been more conscious of their high difference: he was shorter than Apollo, and right now it would take him the slightest movement to bury his face in the crook of Enjolras' neck, finally feeling the softness of those golden locks against his skin and drink in the other boy's scent until he fainted. He could smell it already, it was good and conforting, something alike coffee, soap and a little hint of that rich aftershave sometimes Enjolras used.

The raven haired man whimpered. He was so, so lost.

It was impossible that the revolutionary had come so close to him and of his own free will. If only Enjolras had done so in order to punch him, his proximity would have been perfectly logic. Maybe, Grantaire mused, the blond was just deciding what was the best spot to hit.

Then why Enjolras was looking at him with an expression of pure fondness?

"I'll never hate you." the blond uttered in a shaking breath, then he took Grantaire's face in his hands and pressed a shy, chaste kiss on his mouth.

It was a slight brush, but it felt like, all of a sudden, all the nerve endings that the two young men had were concentrated in their lips. Enjolras felt his heart soar in bliss as his mind got quickly rid of every thought with a naturalness that, at any other time, would have scared him. Not now. Now he just _felt_ and it was breath-taking perfect. He knew he was happy and complete because that was what his body was feeling right now, not because he was told so by his rationality.

Grantaire stayed still. He hadn't even closed his eyes whilst Enjolras's face came closer and closer, making the air between them warm and crackling, because come on, it wasn't actually happening, it was fucking imposs...

_"Oh..."_

Apollo's lips were pure evilness, so full and soft and made for the special purpose of rip apart the last remains of Grantaire's sanity. They left the cynic's mouth too soon and, feeling their pressure disappear, he doubted already that the kiss had been real.

“Uhmm...” was all he managed to get out.

The second kiss made his knees weak: it was as chaste as the first one, just firmer – or maybe just more _insistent_? - and it lingered a little more. When Enjolras tried to draw apart, Grantaire's lips followed him, as if they were plastered to the blond's; then they pulled away with a wet sound and Grantaire found it hotter than hell itself.

Again, he just hummed.

Enjolras rested his forehead against the artist's, their noses bumping slightly and their breaths still so close they melted. He caressed Grantaire's stubbled cheek tenderly, drawing circles on the cheekbone with his thumb; he was shaking, like he couldn't bring himself to believe he was allowed to touch the cynic.

“I love you, Grantaire.” he confessed, his voice small and trembling “I love you so, so much...”

The sudden, strong grip on his arms made him yelp in surprise and pain: maybe it wasn't tight enough to leave bruises, but startled Enjolras nonetheless.

“Gran...”

“Do not toy with me, Enjolras.” the cynic hissed with a cold, stern tone “Do not even fucking try. I can stand anything, but not this!”

“I-I'm not...”

Grantaire's stare sparkled with fury and his words rumbled like a thunder in the distance.

“You can't do this to me. Who do you think you are to fuck with my mind? Just a moment ago you were your usual self...” he paused, not knowing how to continue “Always hostile and angry with me and so blind...” he tried, but for some strange reason saying those thing right now sounded more wrong and harsh than any insult he had yelled at Enjolras in the past. So the cynic's voice was a barely audible sob, when he repeated: “So blind...”

“ _It can't be true. He hates me.”_ he thought.

And yet, a soft voice murmured in the back of his head _“You know it's true. You want it to be true.”_

“You let me pining for ages, never saying anything, nor giving a damn about my feelings!”

“ _Stop! Stop! He's not lying!”_ the voice tried warning him.

“Why now? Is this your last blow, rubbing my love for you on my face before kicking me out of your life?! Or maybe it's just your sick way to be kind with me for once?” he was yelling again, his confusion and desperation so strong he couldn't help it. His hands clenched on Enjolras arms even harder, shaking him whilst the cynic hissed between gritted teeth “Did you just kiss me goodbye, Enjolras? Bad, bad choice... since I don't want, nor need a fucking illusion!”

Enjolras' first sob made Grantaire snap out of his rage and his glassy eyes focussed again.

“ _You bloody idiot!”_ the voice cried _“Look at what you've done! You know very well he would never play with someone's feelings this way!”_

“What have I done...?” the cynic repeated aloud, shocked, whilst watching Enjolras burst into tears.

“I... I d-didn't know!” the blond stammered, barelly managing to speak between sobs so violent that he was struggling to breath “I swear, I-I had no idea! I l-love you, Grantaire, I'm... I'm n-not... l-lying!”

How different Enjolras was now from the fearless revolutionary and the eager honour student everyone knew. It was safe to say that nobody had ever seen him so fragile and scared: maybe even his oldest friends would find such proof of vulnerability an overstatement, something irreal, possible just in theory.

“Enjolras...” Grantaire gasped, his jaw slacken. He loosened his grip and tugged the blond close, holding him tight whilst murmured his name again and again.

Enjolras threw his arms around Grantaire's shoulders, hiding his face in the curve of his neck and crying with abandon. From the blond's lips erupted a flood of “I'm sorry”, “Love you” and “Forgive me”, barely intellegible between the gross sobs and the quivering gulps for air.

Grantaire's heart shrank in pain and he whined whilst encircling Enjolras' waist with his arms.

“Hush, my love, hush... It's allright...” he whispered as he peppered Enjolras' hair with kisses and caressed his back to calm him down, even if his own voice was cracking and his heart was beating so fast it hurt “It's me who must apologize, only me. I love you, Enjolras... God, I love you with all my heart...”

Grantaire couldn't believe it. Enjolras returned his feelings! It was a sensation so exhilarating that the artist felt like laughing out loud and shout whit joy until all Paris would knew how beautiful his life had become.

Then he felt strenght fail him, his legs gave out and he couldn't help sliding against the wall slowly, still holding his Apollo, until they found themselves on their knees and then laying down on the floor in a tangle of limbs.

Oh, well... It was awkward as fuck, to put it mildly.

Very much more awkward than Grantaire might have expected after years spent daydreaming about that particular moment. No, he’d never imagined that he'd confess his feelings sprawled on the floor, or that Enjolras would have an emotional outburst so intense that he'd cry his heart out and leave snot on Grantaire's bare shoulder. Honest to God, the raven-haired artist couldn't bring himself to care in the slightest. But he was cool with that. Real life wasn't some kind of romcom with scenarios suspiciously perfect.

So he kept kissing Enjolras, who was sort of lying on top of him. He hugged him, rocking him in his arms and smoothing him with muttered words, because it was okay, he'd understood now and felt like the luckiest and happiest man alive.

When his beloved Apollo calmed down a little, Grantaire let him slid on the floor slowly, moving with him, until they were lying down on their side, face to face. Looking at Enjolras like this, with his head resting on Grantaire's stretched out arm, the cynic couldn't resist teasing him, asking in a casual tone: “You sure you want to get stuck with someone like me?”

Enjolras' eyes were red and puffy, but clearly that wasn't enough to lessen their force: at the question, they flared up with their usual violent blaze. The artist laughed heartly, preventing any protest from the other.

“Think wise, Apollo! I've got an addictive personality, you know it very well. Are you ready to mess up your life, even waste time you could dedicate to Patria to take care of a poor addict? Last chance to call off, Enj...”

The kiss he received was a more than satisfactory answer, and the cynic's lips curled into a smile.

"God in heaven, how can I go back to my old life, now that I've tasted you? You ruined me. I've got a feeling I'm going to become the worst addict ever."

This time Enjolras rolled his eyes and huffed in exasperation. Then he brought his index finger to the lips, pattering on them. The message was quite clear.

"Do you want another kiss?" asked Grantaire, raising an eyebrow. Actually it wasn't the request to surprise him, instead it was the sudden realization that... "Oh. _Oh_! I can't believe it! My fierce Apollo, speechless because of a few kisses? Be still, my heart!"

Frowning, the blond gave him a gentle poke on the arm - which didn't help at all to rid the smug grin on the artist's face -, then he pointed his mouth again, with more insistence.

"Okay, so you give me no choice. Bossy." Grantaire pretended to complain.

Enjolras cleared his throat. "Be serious."

"I am wild."

"Grantaire..."

"Uh-uh." the cynic tuttered "I really am. Here, let me show you..."

Before Enjolras could ask how, Grantaire's hand cupped his cheek, caressing it with the lightness of a breath. Under the artist's calloused fingers the leader's stubble felt so short it was barely noticeable, a golden shadow on the high cheekbone and the strong line of the jaw, where the fingertips slid before going down along the neck. The cynic's other hand pressed on the curve of Enjolras' lower back, moving slowly up and down the spine, almost as it wanted to count and memorize each vertebra. When the caress moved to the side, both the young men flinched visibly realizing that, in the confusion of their embrace, the hem of Enjolras' shirt had come out from the jeans. On the strip of bare, creamy skin Grantaire's fingers felt rougher than they actually were. The shiver that went through Enjolras was violent and sublime.

"Uhmm... Grant... _aire_!"

"Hush..."

The blond's parted lips were captured in a kiss. Even in his boundless innocence, Enjolras sensed from the very first istant that that kiss was going to be different from the previous ones.

Grantaire seemed to ask for permission with a light touch of his tongue against the leader's lower lip, but he didn't wait for an answer: he just went on and kissed the revolutionary as he had always dreamed of doing, with passion and abandon, promising to himself that, now that Apollo was his, he would never kiss him any other way. He stroked the inside of Enjolras' mouth slowly and yet never letting up, guiding his love's tongue with the gentle movements of his own. The way Enjolras was responding to the kiss was intoxicating: it was giving away the younger man's inexperience, his anxiety and, at the same time, his desire to surrender to the new sensations he was feeling. He had clung to Grantaire with all his strength, digging his nails into the darl-haired boy's back, shaking with pleasure after just his first french kiss...

Enjolras was indeed a gorgeous, impatient virgin.

At that thought, Grantaire felt his throat vibrating for a deep groan. The touch of his hands grew stronger and he buried his face in the elegant curve of Enjolras' neck, where he began to nip and suck the sensitive skin, against which he poured praises with every warm breath.

"You're the most beautiful..." the artist whispered hoarsely, before placing a kiss just below Enjolras' ear "... and terrible..." another kiss on that skin so pure, without a single mole to mar its whiteness "... creature I've ever seen, Enjolras." Then he shamelessly licked the tensed muscle down to the clavicle until his tongue was pressed against the bone; he murmured satisfied tasting the salty sweat "I love you so much, you're my everything..."

Grantaire pretended to bite the side of the neck, in fact just slighty scratching the skin with the teeth: he received in response a whimper louder than the others, so sensual that it made his blood boil inside the veins. Enjolras had never moaned like that in Grantaire's wet dreams, not even in those created by the utmost part of his subconscious, fantasies so dirty that the cynic couldn't remember them without feeling genuinely ashamed.

Finding out that Apollo was in fact able to moan like this was simply _dangerous_.

Grantaire felt an unmistakable warmth light up in his loins and his cock twitched, ready to wake up.

 _"Fuck..."_ he cursed.

A primitive urge began to stir inside the dark haired artist.

He had to stop. Now.

It was exactly what he did, abruptly and literally tearing himself off from Enjolras. Grantaire had never hated himself so much.

He needed to calm down.

"For Christ's sake, Enjolras!" he panted running his hands over his flushed face. The floor was cold against his bare back, but he shivered for a different reason altogether "The things you do to me... You have no idea!"

Things like making Grantaire interrupt the most intense making out he had ever experienced, or giving up any activity of sexual nature that, normally, would came after. Grantaire couldn't deny a lot of his one-night stands had begun with much less than that, but the truth was that the curtain had fallen over casual sex forever the exact moment Enjolras had kissed him.

No more sex just for the sake of it. Okay. Whatever. This though was far light years from being at the top of the list anyway.

The sudden discovery that the boy he loved could be his... well, that _Enjolras himself_ wanted to be his, had set off a myriad of thoughts in his head and Grantaire almost felt dizzy just trying to put them in order.

Some thoughts were born from a strong euphoria, so intoxicating that it made Grantaire's mind light. It was as though, for the first time, the cynic was willing to believe that everything in the world could be beautiful. Yep, as beautiful as the emotions he was feeling right now.

However incredible it sounded, uncertainty and fear remained somewhere inside the artist, but they were of a different type from those Grantaire was used to dealing with. In a matter of minutes, his life had been turned upside down and he knew that he'll never be the same again, no matter what happened from now on.

What if something went wrong?

What if Grantaire fucked everything up, as usual?

Okay, he was aware he actually wasn't a complete loser, in spite of all his troubles and pessimism. He had friends and plans for the future that he tried to carry out, and every time that life had knoked him down, he got on his feet again, maybe not in the best way but he did. That had to have some weight.

The artist glanced at the leader lying at his side and sighed.

The real problem was that Grantaire worshipped Enjolras like the blond was a sort of god, a natural leader destined to enlight masses, too beautiful and full of qualities: the cynic couldn't bring himself to believe he could actually aim for someone so outrageously out of his reach. Since their first meeting, Grantaire had realized that what kept him from openly flirt with the impetuous revolutionary was the fear of not being able to compete with the golden Apollo's perfection. In fact, what ever could have Grantaire to offer to hold the scales even? In the dark haired man's mind, a relationship with Enjolras would always be unequal.

The artist had pondered about it so many times, during sleepless nights or whilst spacing out in class, instead of paying attention to the lecture. Sometimes his thoughts wandered during the hours spent painting another portrait of Enjolras, as if the care with which Grantaire tried to reproduce Apollo's beauty made him actually concentrate on his own faults. In the paintings born that way, Enjolras had always a sad expression, completely foreign to the leader in the flesh and that Grantaire knew only like this: inventing it using the reflection of his pain.

Even now the cynic asked himself, with the usual anxiety, what he had to give Enjolras.

_"What can he find in me? How can I compare myself to him?"_

The blond's curious stare was almost making Grantaire's skin itch. Enjolras was waiting. The dark haired young man didn't dare another glance...

How could he hope to make Enjolras happy? It was strange, but Grantaire considered himself unworthy of a chance with Enjolras, even though he was also ready to make any sacrifice in order to gain even the smallest opportunity.

There it was, his chance: Apollo had smiled at his humble devotee.

But still, what would happen to Grantaire if someday Enjolras would get tired of him or realized he had made a terrible mistake?

All these insecurities swirled inside Grantaire's mind, overcoming and stunning him, loud and relentless as a huge swarm. Sometimes it was like some thoughts collide with one another, but they didn't die, in fact new doubts were born from the explosion.

A strong shudder shook Grantaire's body. Enjolras's love had hit him with the force of a freight train.

Perhaps, he considered with a lump in his throat, he wasn't prepared to find that Enjolras wanted him.

Grantaire wished to be able to understand everything at once: how it happened, how was it even possible...? Above all, he wished to have a minimum of optimism, enough to believe that good things could happen to him too. It wasn't in his favour that he was a cynic used to thinking the exact contrary. Truth be told, Grantaire would need a lot of time time to understand, and even more to deal with his sudden luck.

_"Stop it!"_ he repeated to himself _"That's enough, damn it! If I keep thinking like this, it's sure Enjolras will soon change his mind, and it'll happen just because of me!"_

Beside him, Enjolras moved in silence, shyly scooting closer to the artist's side as if seeking shelter from a non existent cold. Everything had happened that morning had tired him deeply and now he felt exhausted, so much he'd hardly feel anger for being weak right now.

Enjolras didn't want to be tired, nor stop. He wanted, desired, needed Grantaire.

The cynic's sudden stillnes was making him feel impatient.

Something inside Enjolras urged him to get closer and closer to Grantaire, to hold him tight and feel his presence, their bodies pressed together. Enjolras took a deep breath and Grantaire's smell turned his knees to jelly: the hint of oil paint and alcohol was enough to mingle with the scent of coffee and the smell of warm, bare skin on which Enjolras pressed a kiss. His full lips pulled away with a mild, wet sound. The blond smiled, contented. He already liked kissing. Kissing was good. It was even better than he had expected. It was so many things altogether, more than the actual word “kissing” could describe.

As he felt Grantaire shivering, Enjolras wrapped his fingers around the artist's arm, slowly stroking it up and down; soon his hand slid on the broad torso with a gentle touch given, Enjolras realized, by hesitation.

His hands had always been firm and his gestures precise, yet now the fingers trembled touching the cynic's skin. Enjolras had never considered himself as a tactile person: even the hugs shared with his best friends had been rare and short, maybe veiled by a bit of embarrassment from his part. Now the fearless leader felt ashamed: his hands were unnaturally insecure, as if, rather than beeing tired or afraid of the intimacy, he didn't have a clue about how to touch another person. What a ridiculous and still terribly true thought! His cheeks heating up, Enjolras sighed in frustration.

 _"Touch me."_ he begged inside his mind, eager, hoping that Grantaire'd get the hint from his trembling caresses _"Please... Why don't you touch me?"_

"Enjolras."

When the blond's fingers went up along Grantaire's chest enough to begin to feel the furious beating of the heart, the cynic grabbed Enjolras' wrist.

"Enjolras, stop."

The leader blinked hard a couple of times.

_"What...?"_

Lifting his head, Enjolras realized that Grantaire was looking at the ceiling with a blank stare, chewing on his lower lip nervously. By instinct, Enjolras held his breath.

Then Grantaire said: "I think it's better if we take it slow."

Words were clear and especially so many, too many in the artist's head: he was afraid that they might come out of his mouth all at once, turning what he needed to say in a confused speech. At his side, Enjolras stiffened.

"It's too much for me, Enjolras. Over the past three years, I've believed that you barely tolerate me and now I find that you have feeling for me. You love _me_ , Enjolras! For Christ's sake, we both know that you can have anyone you want and I'm not exactly the best catch on the market. I..."

Grantaire paused. He needed to stay calm. He had to say it loud: Enjolras had every right to know that, choosing the cyinic, he was basically asking for troubles. It was simple and right, but then why Grantaire found it so hard to do?

"I love you, but that doesn't erase my flaws or my troubles. Because I have a lot of issues, Enjolras, a fucking collection, and you don't deserve to deal with it. I don't know what went wrong in that precious brain of yours, to want someone like me. If I were a good guy, I'd tell you to go back to ignoring me or rather running away from me as fast as possible. But since I'm a selfish bastard, I won't. I haven't the strength to do it, Apollo. I love you too much to give up."

Grantaire stopped. He began to stroke Enjolras' hand. He wasn’t looking but he still could feel the blond’s piercing gaze fixed on him.

"I swear I'll do anything to become worthy of you, Enjolras. Anything I can give you is yours, but it's a bloody fact that what I've to offer will never be enough. If you want to be with me, you'll have to be content with very little and that idea makes me feel bad already. Shite, you deserve all the best and what I can give is nowhere near enough! Seriously, you must face it!"

A laugh, nervous and liberating at the same time, shook Grantaire: it has been a lot of time since the artist had talked to someone so open-hearted; of course, he'd never have imagined doing so with Enjolras of all people!

"I mean it, Enjolras: think carefully. I know that you can make your own decisions and I'll never question your judgment. But you have to be sure, because, honest to God, I'm scared to death right now. I mean, I... I don't want to find out what will become of me if you'll change your mind after a year, a month or even sooner."

Yeah, he was a selfish bastard, Grantaire considered, not even having the decency of feeling sorry. Plus he was a first class moron, since he had practically asked Enjolras... what? To stay with him forever if he didn't want the responsibility of destroying Grantaire’s heart. For Christ’s sake, that sounded more like a threat than a love confession! Nobody in their right mind would do such a thing.

"Do you really want me, Enjolras?” Grantaire went on, his voice cracking “I want to believe you with every part of my being, but let's face it: I'll need time to get used to the idea. Now I really need to metabolize, to process everything and... God, it's so much! Maybe you don't realize you dropped a fucking bomb! My life just changed forever and I think that, when something like this happens, it's impossible for anyone to accept it easily, even if the change is the best you could wish for. I mean, I get that it's not a joke and I feel like shite for what I said before. I'm not used to seeing my dreams come true! And you, Apollo, were the deepest I've ever had! So maybe it's quite normal that I still find it hard to believe it actually happened!”

After a brief hesitation, concerned about the prolonged silence, Grantaire decided to peek at Enjolras. He found himself staring at red eyes so wide-open that the usual comparison with a deer caught in the headlights wasn't enough to give the idea.

"What the...?"

"Do not do that never again." Enjolras breathed: his voice was deadly serious, but still barely recognizable, so faint and trembling it was. His mouth twisted in a grimace of anger and he shook his head, visibly exasperated. "You idiot, do not dare to say things like these never again, understood? What the fuck is it supposed to mean, I'll have to be content with very little?! You're a wonderful person, smart, witty, generous, strong and talented and I wouldn't have fallen in love with you if it were otherwise! I'm really sorry I made you believe all that crap I said about you. I've made a bloody mess, but I didn't know what else to do!"

Enjolras had to catch his breath and the air seemed to burn in his throat, sore for how much he had cried.

"I've been unfair to you, often even cruel and you never deserved an inch of it. My only excuse is that I didn't dare hoping to be loved back, so beeing an arsehole looked like the only way to make you stop attending the meetings! I thought that, if you just let me alone, my feelings would finally fade away. But no, as always you had to prove me wrong! You kept coming at the Musain, distracting me with your criticism, your sarcasm, your voice, your eyes...! When I realized that my method was useless, it was too late to stop treating you badly: I was terrified that changing my behaviour, even slightly, would betray my love for you!"

As Enjolras kept rambling, Grantaire had turned on his side again to gather the frightened leader in his arms. A microscopic part of the blond wanted to resist, refusing that warm and reassuring embrace, because - that microscopic, malevolent part said - Enjolras didn't deserve it, not when he had just confessed all his unforgettable mistakes.

"You're not pathetic, nor useless. That's me."

Grantaire kissed him on the temple, chuckling. "No, you're not."

"I am! All the horrible things I've said over the years were actually addressed to me!"

"Enjolras..."

"I was mad because I couldn't get over you. I repeated to myself: okay, stoping loving him can't be difficult, although he's so stubbon and keeps persecuting me with his presence! In my life I had faced worse, hadn't I? Instead ignoring you was impossible and the failure frustrated me so much!"

When Grantaire pressed another kiss on his cheek, Enjolras had the impression he'd feel the cynic's lips curling into a smirk.

"Well, as you pointed out, it's my job to prove you wrong." the artist teased.

"I'm not good at this sort of things." Enjolras went on, frowning "It may sound ridiculous, but love, romanticism and relationships are beyond my understanding. If they weren't, I wouldn't have made so many mistakes."

Hearing that, the cynic's grin widened. Then Grantaire lifted Enjolras' chin with a finger, forcing the other boy to look directly into his eyes.

"Hey, listen." he said "We've made exactly the same mistake. Like you, I've tried to keep you at a distance, thinking it'd work. I didn't want to delude myself, but I ended up making the wrong choice anyway, sabotaging every little chance to have something better with you. It's no secret I'm a self-destructive guy, but never so much before meeting my fair Apollo... Every time I got on your nerves, I stupidly hoped that your anger could convince me to give up. In part it worked, but the pain has never been enough. Probably I'm a masochist, because no matter how much you were mad at me and how many times you told me to disappear: your light made me feel so good I just needed to stay in your orbit."

It was as if the Grantaire's words had taken a weight off Enjolras' mind and the blond let out a long sigh of relief.

"You really mean it?" he asked.

"Cross my heart, Apollo. However, I think we'll go on asking each other forgiveness for a while, and you know what? If that's the price to have you, I'm perfectly fine with it. But now let's get up, please: we'll catch a cold if we stay on the floor. It's unsanitary. What would Joly say, if he knew?"

Enjolras was about to shrug, but a sudden thought frozed him, eyes wide-open in an almost comical way.

"Fuck!" he gasped "Grantaire, I... I'm afraid I completely forgot about everyone else!"

"You what?"

"Until a second ago, it was just me and you, and nothing else existed!”

"Awww, how sweet! So you think you're bad at being romantic, right?"

"Grantaire, I'm serious!"

A new laugh, this time loud, erupted from the cynic's very heart.

"It's perfectly normal, Enjolras!" Grantaire assured, then he added with a wink: "But if it weren't, then we're both guilty. Anyway, now get up! I'd had enough with the bloody floor. Before than cold and unsanitary, it's the least romantic place in the universe and I can't believe we spent the first minutes of our story lying down here!"

That said, Grantaire stood up and held out his hand to help Enjolras on feet; when they were both standing, the cynic held the leader tight and kissed him tenderly, again and again.

"It's better this way, admit it." he murmured between the kisses.

Enjolras nodded, then said: "We should let the others know."

Grantaire gave him a questioning look. "Apollo, I don’t think our friends would give a single fuck if we were lying on the floor. Ok, in the worst case Joly'd have a heart attack..."

"I don't mean it like that!" the leader cutted off "I'm referring to the fact that, without their help, we'd still think that we hated each other. They deserve to know as soon as possible."

The cynic went silent, his eyes now serious and thoughtful, as if he were considering every word very carefully. Finally he asked: "Did you talk with Combeferre?"

"Yes. Also with Jehan, Courfeyrac, Cosette and Marius. I spoke to Èponine too, but... only for a few seconds. On the phone." Enjolras admitted and, remembering the young Thénardier's congratulations, he couldn't help blushing.

Grantaire was agape. "What the hell, did you all have a secret meeting behind my back?!"

"No!" the blond hastened to deny "It happened just by chance."

It was true and Enjolras smiled: to think that he owed a twist of fate so much! He saw the swing at the park, thought back to his embarrassing incident and to the misunderstanding at Jehan's home. Thanks to his friends, that disastrous morning had turned into the most beautiful and important of Enjolras' life.

"You have to tell me _everything_." the cynic said in a tone that admitted no objection.

"Well, Jehan told me that…"

"Ah, no, no!” Grantaire tuttered “Don't think you can get off so easily, Enjolras! I won't be satisfied by a mere summary. Start from the very beginning and give me all the details: I just want to have the impression of seeing a movie in my head. But first, I'm going to cook a proper lunch: you'll tell me the story whilst we eat."

"It's hardly necessary." was the flat reply.

It was no secret that food wasn't a priority, for Enjolras, but Grantaire wasn't having any.

"What? Having at least three healthy meals a day? Yes, it is necessary. And I can't wait to have our first lunch together, if you don't mind."

Enjolras sighed, leaning his forehead against Grantaire's: romance would take a really long time to have some logic to him.

"If you say so. But then again, you don't need to cook: we can order something..." he tried to protest again.

“Not today, Apollo. Not on my watch.”

The blond rolled his eyes. “Okay, you won. But don't complain if the fridge's almost empty.” he said with a huff, but something in his voice betrayed his interest.

Grantaire sensed it and smiled in a way that could light up the room. "We'll see. As you said, it's my job to prove you wrong."

 

***

**From Enjolras to Combeferre:**

_"I'm happy."_

 

“ _'Ferre?"_

 

“ _'Ferre, are you there? Did you understand what I said?"_

 

**From Combeferre to Enjolras:**

_"Yeah, I did and I'm very happy for you and R! Sorry if I didn't answer right away but I was trying to calm Èp down"_

 

**From Enjolras to Combeferre:**

_"Thanks! What happened to Èponine?"_

 

**From Combeferre to Enjolras:**

_"Let's say she's very happy for you too and definitely better than me at express it. She's jumping on the couch right now"_

 

_"Anyway. Listen... Ok, I don't know how to say it otherwise. If you want, I can stay at Èp's until tomorrow"_

 

**From Enjolras to Combeferre:**

_"I don't think so. I need you here to talk about what happened today. Grantaire says he has to metabolize it all and damn, he has a point. I need to do so as well. When can you come back?”_

 

**From Combeferre to Enjolras:**

_"Enjolras, I really think it can wait until tomorrow"_

 

**From Enjolras to Combeferre:**

_"Have I ever put off anything?"_

 

**From Combeferre to Enjolras:**

_"No, but that's not the point. I mean it, I'm fine with it. Just tell me what you want me to do. You can answer with a simple yes or no, if it embarrasses you less"_

 

_"In fact, just answer with yes or no"_

 

_"By the way can we avoid talking about it again? Like never. Please?"_

 

**From Enjolras to Combeferre:**

_"But I just said I need to TALK! What's wrong with you? You're saying nonsense. Be here after lunch"_

 

**From Combeferre to Enjolras:**

_"You know Èp's going to kill me for this, right?"_

 

**From Enjolras to Combeferre:**

_"Oh. Sorry, I didn't get it. If she wants to have you for herself for another few hours, that's fine. But I really need to metabolize this relationship thing as quickly as possible"_

 

**From Combeferre to Enjolras:**

_"Believe me: I can tell"_

 

**From Grantaire to Jehan:**

_"Jehan, my friend, I owe you my life, my happiness, everything! If you weren't already engaged with Courf, I could fall for an angel like you!!! <3 <3 <3 <3 "_

 

_"Wait... I couldn't anyway. Now I've a boyfriend too. ^ __ ^ And it's all thanks to you!!!"_

 

**From Jehan to Grantaire:**

_"Dear, we're all very happy for you two! The credit goes to the others as well, trust me, but thank you! Now focus on E!"_

 

**From Grantaire Jehan:**

_"Ok, but Enjolras told me what you did and... You. Are. Priceless. You're better than an angel, you're Cupid in the flesh!"_

 

**From Jehan to Grantaire:**

_"Wow! Thank! *blush* But seriously: FOCUS ON ENJY!"_

 

**From Courfeyrac to Capital-R:**

_"R, how it comes that you're texting Jehan instead of sending a group message?!"_

 

_"I know Jehan's texting you! Don't deny it! And stop ignoring me!!!"_

 

_"Watch out, R!"_

 

**Group message from Courfeyrac to Les Amis:**

_"I've warned you, Benôit Grantaire! Know this: I'll be the fucking bestman or you'll have to give me your first adopted child!"_

 

**From Jehan to Grantaire:**

_"I'm deeply sorry for my moronic boyfriend's intrusion. Please ignore him. In fact, turn off your phone. Both of you! And unplug the landline!"_

 

**Group message from Courfeyrac to Les Amis:**

_"I won't come back home until tomorrow morning. Just saying... ;-)"_

 

_"I trust you, R. Please take care of our innocent lamb! Heaven knows that he needs it badly"_

 

**Group message from Combeferre to Les Amis:**

_"Courf, I swear to God, I'm going to castrate you”_

 

**Group message from Èponine to Les Amis:**

_"LOL"_

 

**Grantaire is off-line.**

 

**Enjolras is off-line.**

 

**Group message from Cosette to Les Amis:**

_"Courf, you really are the worst!"_

 

**Group message from Marius to Les Amis:**

_"Cosette, my love, why don't you answer my textes? Please forgive me! It was a joke!"_

 

**Group message from Cosette to Les Amis:**

_"Oops, sorry, Courf, I forgot someone else deserves the golden medal more than you”_

 

**Group message from Bossuet to Les Amis:**

_"Hey, what's going on here?"_

 

**Group message from Marius to Les Amis:**

_"Please, Pinkie Pie, can I come to your home so we can talk?"_

 

**Cosette is off-line.**

 

**Group message from Marius to Les Amis:**

_"Cosette, please let me explain! : - ((((((("_

 

**Group message from Courfeyrac to Les Amis:**

_"JFC, she just disconnected, she can't read your fucking textes anymore! Stop spamming, Moon Moon!"_

 

**Group message from Feuilly to Les Amis:**

_"???"_

 

**Group message from Èponine to Les Amis:**

“ _Marius, please tell me you didn't just call Cosette like a Little Pony”_

 

**Group message from Courfeyrac to Les Amis:**

“ _I agree with you, Èp. That's not the best nickname I've heard today!”_

 

“ _To everyone: do NOT trust Marius when he gives nicknames.”_

 

**Group message from Feully to Les Amis:**

_"Care to tell what's the matter with you, guys? And why all hell breaks loose exactly when I'm standing in the queue at the supermarket?!"_

 

**Group message from Musichetta to Les Amis:**

_"Yeah, can someone explain?"_

 

_"Hurry the heck up! You know Joly's very anxious!"_

 

**Group message from Joly to Les Amis:**

_"I knew she was pregnant!"_

 

**Group message from Feuilly to Les Amis:**

_"Shite!"_

 

_"Wait a sec, who's pregnant? Chetta?"_

 

**Group message from Musichetta to Les Amis:**

_"Ahahahahaha, so funny! NO!"_

 

**Group message from Bossuet to Les Amis:**

_"Nope"_

 

**Group message from Joly to Les Amis:**

_"No way!!!"_

 

**Group message from Feuilly to Les Amis:**

_"OMG. Marius, you're dead"_

 

**Group message from Marius to Les Amis:**

_"Huh?"_

 

**Group message from Courfeyrac to Les Amis:**

_"Fuck, this is the happiest day of my life!!!"_

 

**Group message from Musichetta to Les Amis:**

_"Jehan, please, you're the only functional grown up here! Tell us!”_

 

**Group message from Jean to Les Amis:**

_"I'm afraid it's something that deserves to be explained face-to-face"_

 

**Group message from Musichetta to Les Amis:**

_"Great. So it's okay if we come to your flat now instead of tonight, as Courf said?"_

 

**Group message from Jehan to Les Amis:**

_"What?!"_

 

**Group message from Èponine to Les Amis:**

_"A horrible thought just occurred to me. Courf, in case your shitty messages made our so called innocent lamb feel so embarrassed that now he doesn't want to be mounted, I'll end you"_

 

**Combeferre is off-line.**

 

**Group message from Èponine to Les Amis:**

_"It's official. My boyfriend's a fucking prude"_

 

**Group message from Joly to Les Amis:**

_"What does this lamb matters now?"_

 

**Group message from Bossuet to Les Amis:**

_"OMFG I'VE JUST LOST A FUCKTON OF MONEY!!!"_

 

**Group message from Marius to Les Amis:**

_"Yeah, Bossuet, we know. It's the same for all of us. Gavroche won the bet!"_

 

**Group message from Musichetta to Les Amis:**

_"Tell me you're not kidding! I just dropped my iPhone and now the screen looks like a spider web, so it's better for everyone that this is not some stupid joke!"_

 

**Group message from Joly to Les Amis:**

_"Jehan, we're on our way"_

 

**Group message from Feuilly to Les Amis:**

_"Me too! Is it really what I'm thinking it is?! Don't you dare starting celebrating without me!"_

 

_"Jehan, can I put some frozen food in your fridge, please?"_

 

**Bahorel is on-line.**

 

**Group message from Bahorel to Les Amis:**

_"Ok guys. What the fucking fuck did I just miss?"_

 

**Group message from Courfeyrac to Les Amis:**

_"LOLOLOLOL!!!"_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, first of all I'm deeply sorry for the delay, but I've had to take care of myself for a while (done some medical examination and stuff. I'm still waiting for the result, but since the hardest part is done... here the new chapter)
> 
> This chapter has some action between R and Enjolras, but for the real smut you'll have to wait until chapter 6. Anyway I really hope you enjoyed this chapter: I'm quite unsure about how it turned out, so I'd appreciate a lot any comment, suggestion and constructive criticism! Thank you in advance! And thanks for your patience!
> 
> I'm on Tumblr: http://viviancurtis.tumblr.com/ Come to say hi!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire acts strange, Enjolras wants to know why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First things first, I'm very sorry it took me so long to update, I really am, but a lot of things happened in the past months and I didn't have enough spare time for finish the chapter sooner. Plus I tried to write straight in English, when I usually write in Italian and then translate. Not sure it was a wise choice... Anyway, enjoy the new chapter!!!

He chewed slowly, as though he was trying subconsciously to make the rich flavour of the food linger on his tongue as long as possible. Arching his back a little, Enjolras relaxed leaning against the cushions on the sofa. When the morsel was swallowed, another sigh full of satisfaction arose from his mouth. He was more than satisfied: he was appeased, it hadn't happened very often to him in the past, at least when food was involved. The tip of the tongue flicked out between his parted lips to lick the prongs, slowly, then the blond closed his mouth around them and sucked the metal until it was clean again.

 _"Oh God, that was a perfect omelette if there was ever one!"_ Enjolras considered.

Deep in thought, he told himself it was simply amazing, not to say beyond human understanding, that food made with something so simple as eggs, ham and little else could be so damn tasty. The leader licked his lips, completely unaware that, doing so, they were so moist they looked almost sinful.

A strangled groan at his side roused him from his blissed torpor.

Enjolras blinked slowly, as if the sensations he felt devouring the omelette had been so strong and pleasant that now his mind didn't want let them go.

Sitting by his right side, Grantaire was staring at him open-mouthed, his face frozen in an unreadable expression.

The leader frowned. "What's the matter?"

Grantaire's mouth snapped shut with a click of teeth.

"Uhm... nothing." the artist mumbled in a low voice, with evident effort, but apparently that managed to go unnoticed.

"You're an excellent cook, Grantaire." Enjolras said with a smile "I had no idea. I'm very impressed, I mean it!"

The other looked away without a word.

"Did you attend any cooking classes?" the blond urged, still oblivious.

Grantaire shook his head sheepishly, fidgeting on the sofa. He seemed to be trying to cross his legs and fold them against his torso at the same time, as if he wanted to shut up like a clam and maybe to do so with as few moves as possible. After some clumsy attempts, the raven haired man gave up with a groan and decided to stay hunched over, arms crossed and elbows apparently glued to the knees. For some even more obscure reason, his gaze was fixed to a general spot on the wall in front of them, between the TV and the cabinet where, thanks to Courfeyrac, were stacked more DVDs than sane people could need in two life times.

That caught Enjolras' attention finally.

"Is something wrong?" he ventured.

Again, the cynic just shook his head firmly. He seemed quite determined not to abandon the new found position very soon. In all honesty, the revolutionary doubted it was actually comfortable. It was evident the artist was hiding something. Enjolras cocked his head to the side and studied Grantaire, trying to catch any revealing detail.

"Grantaire." he said in the same warning tone he used at the meetings, when... well, when the cynic was getting on his nerves like it was his principal life goal.

It was quite confusing because now Grantaire wasn't obnoxious at all: he was merely acting strange and for no apparent reason. The blond couldn't help but feeling puzzled. Over the span of knowing Grantaire, he'd pretty much faced all the variants the artist could offer of How To Be A Massive Pain In Enjolras' Arse, but this wasn't a behaviour that the leader recognized, much less in his noisiest and most uninhibited opponent.

Perhaps Grantaire was feeling uncomfortable because of something Enjolras had said or done inadvertently? There could be no other logical explanation, but, even accepting this reasoning as right, the leader realized he still hadn't a clue about the triggering event.

Could it be it was because of the compliment?

Enjolras was well aware that he hadn't praised Grantaire very often. Okay, he was almost certain he'd never really complimented him for anything. But who could blame him, considering how terrified he was by the possibility that the slightest sign of appreciation might reveal his true feelings? Anyway, it was more than plausible that receiving kudos from the blond for the very first time after years of maddening arguments might have embarrassed the cynic.

Sensing Enjolras' stare on him, Grantaire twitched nervously. His discomfort was becoming more and more clear, however it remained incomprehensible to the other man.

Impatient, Enjolras called again: "Grantaire?"

This time the artist winced as if the revolutionary's voice had pinched him. As always unable to resist Apollo's call, he dared a few fleeting glances, never looking at Enjolras' face directly.

"Y-yes?"

Now the leader was confused for sure: Grantaire’s eyes were wide as if he was scared. Even more amazingly, in the last minutes his face had increasingly flushed.

"Grantaire, look at me."

The other winced again, but he obeyed nevertheless, turning slowly and with obvious difficulty, as if he was forcing himself to do so. Although now he was facing Enjolras, his gaze was still avoiding him. In fact, every part of Grantaire was radiating an unnatural embarrassment. The situation was starting to irritate him.

"Gran _taire_."

The black-haired man twitched and said in a whisper: "Stop."

Enjolras quirked an eyebrow, lips pouting. "Stop what?"

"Repeating my..." Grantaire looked up, but as soon he saw Enjolras’ expression, his voice failed him. As though he was suddenly taken into a trance, he stared at Enjolras for a long moment.

"Huh?" Enjolras frowned. Unconsciously, he pursed his lips a little more.

After the slightest intake of breath, Grantaire repeated: "Stop."

A blink, then his eyes returned to move all around the leader, like they were looking for a spot where to stop. A spot, any spot that wasn't Enjolras.

"But I didn't say anything!" Enjolras protested.

"You did your... _thing_." was the cryptic reply. Grantaire sniffled and lifted the index finger, waggling it nervously at his mouth "Your lips. You pouted."

Enjolras blinked, clearly confused. He tried to find a sense in that remark, but he had to admit to be unable to find any.

"Okay...?"

"I like when you pout." the black-curled man went on. Head ducked, now he was keeping his gaze plastered to his trainers, so old and covered with splashes of paint that their original color was long become indecipherable. His Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed dry, as his cheeks, if possible, reddened even more "The problem is that I _really_ like it. Too much, really."

Enjolras nodded, but in fact he was still struggling to grasp the meaning of Grantaire's words.

"And this is a bad thing?"

"Yes!" the answer was impulsive, as much as it was the "No!" that quickly followed it. His face contorted in a grimace, Grantaire groaned. "I mean... no, it's not. I think."

"You think?" Enjolras echoed, not satisfied at all by the answer. He almost snapped: "How can the fact that you like something be a bad thing?!"

Maybe Enjolras wasn't even aware that he wasn't actually frustrated by the difficulty of understanding Grantaire, but rather disoriented by finding out the artist had a thing for _his lips_. His. Lips. It was pretty damn obvious that there had to be something in Enjolras capable to fascinate Grantaire, since the cynic was in love with him, but still... Well, the naked truth was that, after years spent convincing himself that Grantaire hated him to the core, Enjolras was finding quite difficult to accept he'd been wrong. To hear him saying he found him attractive was incredible to him. Literally.

The artist cleared his throat. "I do know it's not a bad thing, Enjolras. Trust me."

"Uhm..."

"I mean it! Anyway... can we stop talking of..."

"I had no idea you liked me so much."

"Come again?!"

"I never thought that you liked me."

Too embarrassed to say it out aloud, Enjolras added inwardly: _"Physically. Or in any other way whatsoever."_

Grantaire was unaware of how strong the insecurity hidden behind these words was, but he felt a pang of regret and guilt anyway. He shook his head with a sigh. Of course, he must have just been a great pretender, if Apollo had never noticed anything. Well, wasn't this the plan all along? The cynic had never allowed himself to believe that Enjolras might want him, so why should he have risked to make a fool of himself, revealing his true feelings? Much better masking his desperation as bitterness and rubbing it on Enjolras' face at any chance given. It was a master plan, even if quite masochistic. All the pain would be totally worth it... if only Enjolras and Grantaire hadn't been two big idiots. That thought made his heart shrink for the umpteenth time, and the young man wondered if that feeling would ever disappear.

"Enjolras, listen..." he began.

"If only I'd have thought you'd liked me, maybe I'd have found the nerve to say something." the blond offered, cutting him off.His voice was calm, whilst another one, strangely similar to Courfeyrac's, said in his mind: _"You're kidding, right? Because we all know you'd have kept denying any evidence even though R would declare his love for you every odd day and serenade you every even day! You stubbon dork!"_

It was true. Enjolras clenched and opened his fist a few times, feeling uncomfortable.

"Perhaps..." he went on with a tentative smile "Perhaps I'd have pouted more often, so to encourage you to make a move!"

Grantaire stared at him, his dark eyebrows raised almost to touch the hairline. After some seconds, he burst out laughing: Ironic Enjolras was a phenomenon so rare that the exceptionality of the joke was enough to make Grantaire giggle. Even Enjolras smiled.

Then, of course, Grantaire put his foot in his godamned mouth.

"Or maybe you could have just moaned like before!"

 _"Oh Shite!"_ the cynicthought the very second that fucking M word slipped from his lips.

"What?!" gasped Enjolras.

"Y-You know... w-when you were eating..."

"Double shite!"

"I did not... _moan_ , Grantaire!" the blond exclaimed, his face quickly heating up.

"Well..."

"Not on purpose, however!"

"It was good anyway."

 _"What the fuck?!"_ Grantaire’s mind shrieked.

Why had he said that? And right in front of Enjolras?! Why was he born with vocal cords in the first place?! Now it was impossible to cover the unfortunate slip-up and Grantaire felt shame eating him with gusto. He couldn't believe he was such a jerk! Okay, it was undeniable that his Apollo had moaned in the most sinful way: after all, Grantaire had had to use every bit of his willpower to tear himself away from him, when they were kissing lying on the floor. Grantaire felt like a hopeless moron.

 _"How can he moan like this without even being aware of it?"_ he wondered, wishing he could shield himself from Enjolras’ shocked look.

That stare was different from the menacing fire burning in Enjolras' eyes every time they argued. It was unbearable all the same, so much that, even when Enjolras buried his face in his hands, Grantaire didn't feel any relief.

The revolutionary breathed in slowly as his hands ran over his heating face, until the palms joined together under the chin, index fingers resting against the lips pressed in a tight line. The cynic recognised that gesture, he'd observed it countless times and he wasn't sure it was a good thing to see it now: Enjolras was thinking deeply and Grantaire knew already that, whatever decision Apollo was about to take, it would be final.

 _"That's it, I've fucked it up all already."_ the thought buried itself in Grantaire’s man's mind with the precision of a knife _"Now he'll tell me to get my sorry arse out and disappear from his life. Just because I can't keep my fucking mouth shout!"_

The artist was aware of how low Apollo's tolerance was for sexual jokes or innuendos. Well, at least when his innocent brain managed to get them. It was a truth universally acknowledged, to the point that all the Amis had stopped testing their leader's patience a long time ago – well, with the exception of Courfeyrac.

 _"I should probably say something!"_ Grantaire told himself.

He opened and closed his mouth a few times, but just a pathetic "Humm..." came out.

Granted, it wasn't the best start you could possibly wish for, but Grantaire was too scared to mind: he needed to apologize, right now. If necessary, he would drop on his knees in a second, ready to lick Enjolras' shoes clean with his guilty, useless tongue.

Well, now he was just panicking... right?

But it was exactly Grantaire's rising panic to rescue him, loosening the knot in his throat that avoided any sound to came out. He breathed out and then spoke almost in a rush.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry! Please, believe me, it was just a terrible choice of words! It's not that you did something wrong, sure you didn't, probably it's only my fucking mind that makes me see everything about you as it's the quintessence of hotness and eroticism!"

Fuck.

In Grantaire's head there was a sound like sharp nails on a chalkboard. Was it actually legit and wise using terms such as "hotness" and "eroticism" in front of Enjolras, above all in a situation so compromised already? Grantaire had no idea and, before he could overthinking it, he forced himself to go on.

"You've got like a... hypnotic effect... or whatnot. On me. Yep. Every little thing about you attracts me, whether it is a physical feature or related to your personality. And your voice, Enjolras? I love it, so much that someday it'll drive me crazy! Seriously, perhaps I should worry, but since you actually fascinate anyone with your eloquence... Okay, maybe I should worry, at least a bit, because unlike anyone else, I like your voice all the fucking time! Yes, you magnetize my total attention just when you give a speech, Enjolras! Even when we argue, I drink in every single word you say, every little syllable and deep in my heart I wish you’d never stop talking! I tried not to listen to you, but you know what? I found out it hurts, it makes me feel like empty and miserable."

Grantaire paused to take a breath. He was smiling tenderly, like someone who remembers something really sweet.

"Above all, Enjolras, I love when you say my name. It doesn't matter if you say it absently, when you're self-absorbed on your work, or with rage because your patience is at its limit. I mean, like... like at the Musain, when you're pissed off because I stopped listening to whatever you and the others are saying, since I'm too distracted by your beauty or by the alcohol with which I try to stop caring so much for you, at least for some hours." the smile that tugged at the corners of Grantaire's mouth turned into a brittle laugh "I love your voice even when you yell at me during our arguments! Heaven knows how many times I've provoked you just to hear you saying my name and, well, have your complete attention for a few moments. Maybe you think I've always interrupted your speeches just to get on your nerves, but the truth is that I've never found a better way to feel close to you!"

As Grantaire spoke, his blue eyes were sparkling, full of inspiration and joy. But then those eyes widened and the flow of words ended abruptly, as though the artist had said too much. In fact, the young man scratched the back of his head, looking openly embarrassed.

"Uhm... Actually, that was supposed to be a secret." he said, before hurrying to add: "I swear that it's not as creepy as it sounds! Anyway, everything I said is true. I've got you under my skin, Enjolras, you’ve no idea how deep! You... you're completely unaware of the power you've got over me, aren't you?"

Enjolras was staring at him speechless. The effects of Grantaire's confession were evident in his glossy gaze and stiff body, as if the leader had taken a large breath in more or less when he had heard the words "hypnotic effect" and then remembered to exhale it only now.

There was no doubt that Grantaire had voiced his deepest feelings, exactly like he'd done just an hour before. Enjolras knew too well Grantaire was damn good at speaking his mind all the time, but how was he supposed to know he had a freaking knack for love confessions? In the revolutionary's opinion, arguing about politics, social rights or global warming was far too different from confessing feelings. If it was otherwise, Enjolras was positive he would master speaking of love even more than Jehan himself! Instead feelings had always been his weak point. It was quite unfair and – oh, what a surprise! - infuriating that Grantaire could be so good at it, making Enjolras feel clumsy and out of his element. The worst thing was that Grantaire made love confessions sound so _easy_! Enjolras quivered a bit in a mixture of awe and envy: how was he supposed to handle a boyfriend as romantic as Grantaire?

The thought made Enjolras shiver again, but for a quite different reason.

Did he just referred to Grantaire as a boyfriend? As in... _his_ boyfriend?

The leader fought the need of mentally facepalming himself. It was obvious Grantaire was his boyfriend now! Then why, for God's sake, why it had taken Enjolras so much to get it?!

Well, maybe because he was actually pure shite at feelings, the blond pondered.

"You're completely unaware of the power you've got over me, aren't you?"

Grantaire's question echoed in his head, interrupting the train of thoughts.

Enjolras swallowed and quickly considered those words, summoning all his well-known clearness of mind. How strange... at the moment he didn’t seem to have much of it.

 

There was no doubt Enjolras was thrown off. No one had ever talked to him like this: Combeferre's honesty and Courfeyrac's – often excessive - forthrightness had nothing to do with Grantaire's confession, nor with the sweetness of his tone or with the light beaming in his eyes. Listening to Grantaire speaking about his feelings had been unexpected, exactly like the artist had said. Enjolras felt bewildered, to not say shaken to the core by those sincere words. To think Grantaire had said them with such naturalness and boldness! Who knew the cynic could love with so much abandon?

"You're completely unaware..."

"I suppose so." Enjolras admitted with a little voice, wondering when he'd be able to tell Grantaire something as breathtaking as his confession.

The dark-curled man chuckled as he nervously tapped his feet on the carpet, his back still hunched. All of a sudden, he cleared his throat soundly and reached out toward the dirty dishes on the coffee table.

"Okay, time for doing the dishes."

But he didn't even touch them, since Enjolras' fingers curled firmly around his wrist, stopping him mid-air. The grip became immediately less strong, even gentle as the blond brought the cynic's calloused hand to his mouth to plant a kiss on it.

"Thank you." Enjolras said.

Before Grantaire could react, the leader leaned toward his boyfriend and pressed their mouths together. That kiss was not as light as the previous one: in a second Grantaire found himself licking and nibbling at Apollo's plump lower lip, dropping a hint the leader was more than willing to take. Enjolras opened his mouth with a shiver, feeling already that the artist was dictating the pace and the depth of the kiss. Grantaire raised a hand to the back of Enjolras' head, digging his thick fingers into the golden locks: he didn't even have to increase the pressure of his fingertips to make Apollo tilt his head, so as to give him a better angle.

The cynic sighed into the kiss. He was playing with fire and he knew it too well. When he'd warned Enjolras, reminding him of his addictive personality, Grantaire hadn't joked in the slightest. Maybe, he considered, he himself needed to keep that in mind.

It was then that Enjolras moaned. If possible, it was worse than the first time.

The cynic broke the kiss abruptly, gasping for air even if he wasn't short of breath yet. It had happened twice in the same hour and Grantaire was not pleased by that.

What really worried him, however, was a far worse problem. He started gnawing at his lips as his breathing quickened, making the nostrils quiver.

"What?" Enjolras asked, noticing the other was tense and avoiding his look again.

It was frustrating. After his confession, Grantaire had looked more relaxed, but now his expression had returned tense and his gaze elusive. Enjolras tried to cup the artist's face to force him to look into his inquiring eyes, but in vain: Grantaire kept shielding himself, dodging Enjolras' hands without saying a word, like a stubborn child. And like before, he was blushing and trying to shut up like a clam, with his broad back bended over as if an insufferable pain was breaking him in two. It took all Enjolras' willpower not to scream in exasperation!

"You're nervous again." the leader said in a flat, controlled tone.

He hated to state the obvious, but he liked even less seeing the other in that state without knowing the reason of it. He needed taking a long, trembling breath, then another one, even deeper, to resist the urge to tell Grantaire he was a stubborn mule, since remaining silent was going to solve nothing.

Enjolras could be ignorant in the matter of love and relationships, but he was pretty sure that scolding your partner when they are vulnerable was something to avoid. So he said, with all the sincerity he could muster: "I'm sorry. What can I do to make you feel better?"

The answer wasn't of any help: "I... I told you, Enjolras. Everything you do has a strong effect on me."

It was an exaggeration, the blond thought with a roll of eyes. He'd never been fond of exaggerations: in his opinion, they tended to make sentences sound less incisive or serious. Often Enjolras put them ideally on the same level of lies.

"This can't be true."

"Maybe, but it comes close enough to truth." Grantaire replied. Apparently his shoes had returned to be the most interesting thing in the world to him.

"No, I just don't get it." Enjolras huffed "You never behaved like this! I've never affected you this way!"

Grantaire snorted at that. Uneasiness was painfully evident in his laugh, as much sarcasm was in his response.

"I've frankly lost count of all the times that it's happened!"

"You're lying."

"I really am not."

Enjolras was more and more close to lose his temper: Grantaire was behaving just like when they were at the Musain, but now his sarcasm was really out of place. The blond had understood a long time ago that Grantaire's harsh jokes were often a sort of defence, as well as coldness was a weapon for the revolutionary himself. But why would Grantaire use sarcasm right now? Why was he keeping being so stubborn and elusive, when they had no need to hide anything from each other anymore?

"All right. Explain, then."

Grantaire hinaled sharply. "Enjolras, please, can we just drop the subject?"

"Of course not. Spill!"

"No chance!"

The artist's agitation was verging on panic and this made Enjolras feel even more puzzled, worried and, needless to say, determined to figure out what the hell was going on. When Grantaire tried to get up and leave, his back still strangely hunched, the revolutionary didn't have any of it: on the spur of the moment, he grabbed the cynic by his arm and yanked him back down. Thrown off balance, Grantaire fell on the sofa in an unseemly manner.

It was then that Enjolras finally saw it.

"Oh. _Oh..._ "

With a strangled whimper, Grantaire drew back against his corner of the sofa and tried to cover his groin with a cushion. Realising it was far too late to hide his shame, he threw it on the floor in a fit of frustration, hissing a curse, and curled himself up in a trembling ball.

"S-Sorry." he stammered a second later, looking like a dog caught doing something really bad.

He was a prey to the deepest mortification: his cheeks hitched and looked like they were reduced to embers, but an even more painful fire was burning him inside out. Grantaire was utterly oblivious of the fact that his beloved Apollo was feeling the same.

Enjolras swallowed dry. His nostrils quivered because of the large breaths he was forcing himself to take.

Grantaire was hard.

The leader was sure it wasn't just a figment of his imagination, even though the artist had moved too fast for a double take. Enjolras had seen the unmistakable profile of a swollen cock stretching the fabric of Grantaire's pants. He had _seen_ it. Nobody could have possibly been mistaken, not even a virgin like him.

Enjolras didn't know what he was supposed to say or do. Actually, was there an appropriate way to react to a situation like that? The blond had to admit he was at a loss.

"Shite shite shite shite shite shite shite shite!"

Enjolras couldn't bring himself to believe he hadn't noticed it sooner. He had no idea he was so innocent and fucking stupid as to be totally blind to this sort of signals. The hints had been so many and now, with the benefit of hindsight, they were shining inside Enjolras' shocked mind more crystalline than diamonds. For God's sake, Grantaire had dropped a whole jar of pennies to make him get it or, at least, to spare both of them embarrassment! And in vain, since the leader had been stubborn enough to hurl himself at ruin like a freight train.

Enjolras felt as if the embarrassment was burning him, his skin going so red it probably wouldn’t return to its natural colour for days. Yes, Enjolras told himself whilst his heart was beating at a painful pace: there were no doubts that normal people would feel like that after finding out they were so hopelessly naive. That was supposed to be the right reaction. And Enjolras was so ashamed he could die, really!

So why he felt also incredibly turned on?! A merciless shiver ran down his back, radiating little electric shocks that made his skin tingle from inside out.

"Grantaire is hard. For... me."

Eyes closed, Enjolras felt every fibre of his being reacting at the realisation. The proof of Grantaire's desire was hidden by two miserable layers of fabric - pants and underwear, that's it. Unless the cynic went commando. That wasn't actually something Enjolras needed to think about right now, but come on, how was he supposed to resist? The image of a hard cock, naked and ready to be touched in every imaginable way, blossomed behind his eyelids. It was as if Grantaire’s erection had made Enjolras finally understand that that hot, tattooed, muscular body was finally within his reach.

The revelation was almost more shocking than finding out Grantaire's feelings for him.

"Mine, all mine..."

Enjolras' cock twitched, awakening.

 _"Just two layers of fabric..."_ the leader repeated to himself.

Two layers were nothing. It would be very easy to get rid of them. The revolutionary licked his lips unawares, suddenly hungry, yet he clenched his fists instead of leaning to kiss Grantaire like before. Enjolras knew all too well what was holding him back. In his head he could hear his two best friends' voices, like the chorus of a Greek tragedy. Fragments of past jokes and conversations. As always, there was an amused hint in Courfeyrac's tone, whereas Combeferre's was almost resigned.

"The hermit saints of the Middle Age knew of sex more than you! Your sexuality is bloody vintage!"

"Seriously, Samuel... You're a full-grown up with an Internet connection. You could at least try to put it to good use, what do you think?"

"You're mastering virginity, Enjy! Mastering, I say! Like... Jedi Master level!"

Well, it was undeniable that the leader's knowledge of sex was limited. Could it be that it was too limited?

Courfeyrac's voice prodded Enjolras again, dramatically sighing: _"In all likelihood, your theoretical knowledge is acceptable only if we compare it to the practical one, which I'm sorry to say tends to minus infinity."_

Both of his childhood friends were right, they had been right all along... and maybe Enjolras' sexual life was a Greek tragedy for real. But this hadn't stopped the blond from desiring Grantaire, even before coming to terms with his love for him.

Feeling his jeans getting more and more uncomfortable, Enjolras bit his lower lip.

"I want to touch him. I want to know how it feels."

The two boys had remained still and silent for some long, awkward moments, casting furtive glances at teach other, both of them desperately waiting for a reaction. In the end, the waiting proved unbearable for poor Grantaire.

"Are you mad?" he ventured.

"No." Enjolras answered and it was true.

"Sorry." the artist mumbled nonetheless.

To think that the hard-on had started softening, whilst Grantaire was one step from waxing poetry for his Apollo! Then a mere kiss had been enough to bring him right back to the starting point. It was abso-fucking-lutely brilliant! The cynic wished he could blame it on bad luck, but he knew it was all his fault. He shouldn't have let Enjolras kiss him. It was obviously a bad idea, with desire still flowing in Grantaire's veins, ready to make him lose control. Had Grantaire been wise enough to listen to common sense? Hell, of course not. Why do you even need to ask? Duh!

The cynic prayed to dissolve into thin air or that the floor could split under his feet and mercifully swallow him. He wished to be a telepath and order Apollo's mind to forget the last ten minutes. Even being able to convince Enjolras he was suffering a rare case of optical illusion would be an acceptable option. Grantaire wasn't picky. Anyway, as he hadn't any magical/mutant power, he couldn't do anything but hiding his face behind his hands, feeling like the greatest loser. Okay, his boner had flagged a bit because of the embarrassment, but it was too late! Now what, in the name of all that was holy, would manage to kick the arse of the proverbial elephant out of the room? Seriously, no little girl in the world had ever wanted a pony with the same intensity with which Grantaire wished Enjolras could momentarily lose short term memory.

"Please, I don't want to talk about it. Please, I don't want to talk about it... "

Needless to say, the mantra was interrupted almost immediately by Enjolras' voice.

"Are you alright?"

It sounded like a rather calm tone, without a hint of resentment, but Grantaire wasn't in the mood for trusting his ears or his body in general, seeing how it had just betrayed him.

"No, I'm not." he admitted, before adding, for good measure: "Sorry."

"You already said that."

"Hum, right. Sor..." the cynic stopped, mentally slapping himself.

"You shouldn't feel ashamed." Enjolras said "That's... well, a normal physical reaction."

Grantaire snorted. "No shit Sherlock!"

"I've got a penis, too."

The artist turned to Enjolras so fast that his neck almost snapped soundly. "I'd really appreciate if you'd not remind me of that, especially right now, thank you very much!"

The blond didn't even have the decency of looking sorry, in spite of the fact that his cheeks were reddening, Grantaire noticed. On the contrary, Enjolras huffed.

"What I mean is that I know how those things work. I'm not as ignorant as you all seem to think." he remarked and, without even realizing it, stuck his lower lip out.

Judging from the strangled sound that came out from the back of his throat, you'd have said that Grantaire was in the throes of death.

"You're trying to fucking kill me!" he wailed in a small, scared voice.

"Huh?"

"Please, stop it! Stop pouting, stop pursing your lips, licking or nibbling at them! Fuck, just have a little mercy, okay?! Leave me alone with my misery or I'll need to wait until I'm very old and very impotent to get up from this fucking sofa!"

Enjolras couldn't help chuckling, although this earned him a cold look.

"Ah ah. Very funny indeed." the dark-haired man said humorlessly.

"Do you really have a thing for my mouth?"

 _"Well, at least he hasn't called it a sick kink."_ the cynic considered.

"If me popping a boner that make my dick feel like it's made of diamond doesn't seems a good evidence to you... Christ, Apollo, of course I've got a thing for your stupidly sexy mouth, what do you think?! I already told you I like you from head to toe, body and soul! I'm crazy for you, to the point that I notice even your smallest feature, all those little things that you blatantly ignore or, God forbid, belittle!"

A blond eyebrow arched, Enjolras said sceptically: "You're exaggerating again."

This time Grantaire's eye shot wide, as if Enjolras’ words were an offense too big to bear.

"Oh, no, fuck! Don't! Do not try to deny it, Enjolras, okay? Holy fucking shit! You're a true vision, the ultimate human evolution, Mother Nature's masterpiece, God's fucking slam dunk! You've got the body of a fashion model, the face of an angel and an arse so sculpted that it would put a ballet-dancer to shame! Basically, you're a bloody mythological creature! You're a super hot mixture of perfection blended with other perfection and perfection and then more perfection! Your infinite, inhuman beauty gives me insomnia and makes my wrist hurt like hell far too often for the sake of my future career as a painter. But still you don't give it the slightest fucking credit! Every time someone dares to compliment about your attractiveness, you go nuts and start ranting and raving about social constructs and other bullshit!"

The cynic stopped abruptly, panting a little, realizing that he had raised his voice and, above all, he'd just spill something before he could think it through... again. He ran a hand through his unruly hair, tugging at it in frustration.

"This conversation is absurd!" he groaned "Since when a devotee has to explain to his god the reasons he worships him?! You're so beautiful it's almost scary and I should be clinically dead to be close to you without feeling aroused! I'm only a poor, weak mortal, oh divine Apollo, so try not to take advantage of your power! Actually, you know what? Screw it! Feel free to pout all you want, I don't care anymore! There, I'm not even watching you!"

That said, Grantaire returned to his impression of a clam.

The following silence was thick and unnerving. The artist shivered noticeably when he felt the seat of the sofa dip closer to him, betraying Enjolras' movements.

"I'm glad I have such strong... ascendency over you."

The words were whispered so close to Grantaire's ear that the young man felt his cock stirring at the mere sensation of Apollo's breath lingering on his lobe.

"En... Enjolras...?" he stammered whilst turning slowly to face the leader, as if his eyes were magnetized by his beloved's.

Enjolras was now on his knees, his long legs folded underneath his thighs. He leaned in a little closer, until their noses bumped.

 _"Maybe your ascendency over me pleases you, you little bastard, but the truth is that you don't know yet how deep it is."_ Grantaire mused.

He saw the kiss coming and he didn't even move to avoid it, feeling absolutely helpless and blessed at the same time, if that made any sense.

He loved his Apollo's kisses. Who knew how long they would still be so innocent, given the insistence with which Enjolras pressed his mouth against the cynic's. No doubt they were the purest and yet the more clumsy kisses Grantaire had received in all his life, but he couldn't care less: there was no kiss that could compare to Apollo's. In fact, Enjolras outshined all his past lovers and all the little crushes Grantaire had had before meeting his golden god.

Enjolras withdrew slowly, then bowed his head to brush his lips over the artist's arm, nuzzling and gently dusting kisses on the soft fabric of the sweatshirt. Grantaire couldn't divert his gaze: he kept staring at the leader as if he was hypnotized. Enjolras' head was so close that he could smell the herbal shampoo lingering on the mane of soft, angelic curls; almost his whole vision was filled by the finest shades of gold, as though the artist was staring too close at one of Klimt's artworks. He was loving every second of it, but he was also fearing what might follow. And not without a reason.

"I'm ready."

Grantaire blinked hard, suddenly finding himself staring at the blue flame burning in Enjolras’ gaze.

"W-What?"

"I'm ready." Enjolras repeated before elaborating: "You have my consent."

Grantaire swallowed dry. "Uh?"

The leader stroked the artist's stubbled cheek with the back of his fingers; he was blushing, but otherwise he looked unperturbed by Grantaire's shocked expression. Even worse, it was like he didn't even realize what he had just said, nor all the implications. Those words couldn't mean what Grantaire thought, right? They were too allusive to be said by the chaste Enjolras outside Grantaire's wet dreams. Actually they were so unexpected that perhaps the cynic wasn't ready to hear them in real life.

Enjolras whispered: "I'm far from being perfect. In fact, I'm only a ‘poor, weak mortal’ just like you, Grantaire. And I have a sex drive, too."

Honest to God, Grantaire squeaked.

Not even that managed to undermine Enjolras' determination.

"I want to have sex with you."

This time, from the back of the artist's throat rose a strangled groan. Maybe Grantaire would have felt ashamed, if only he had heard it, but his heart seemed to pound directly into his ears and he couldn't hear anything over it, beside Apollo's words.

The blond stood still, in expectant silence, waiting for a reaction. When none came, his expression cracked, revealing for a brief moment all the uncertainty hidden beneath the apparent confidence. Enjolras' lips quivered a little, then froze into a tight line.

"I permit it." he repeated.

It seemed that the blond didn't know what else to say - or do - and he was painfully aware of that. For the revolutionary able to charm anyone with his powerful dialectics, remaining speechless was unbearable. The situation was so absurd to me! Enjolras would never have thought that someday Grantaire's silence would affect him even harder than his stinging remarks and infuriating criticism! Instead it was happening for real and, when the realisation sank in, he felt even more aware of his vulnerability. It was a terrifying feeling.

Since Grantaire seemed determined to remain silent, Enjolras started to think he’d made an awful mistake.

"Grantaire...?"

A slight intake of breath was the only sign that the black-curled man had heard him.

"Grantaire, please, say something."

"Fuck." Grantaire's eyelids fluttered as if he was recovering consciousness: in a few seconds his eyes focused, but not a single bit of astonishment had abandoned them. "Enjolras... w-what... what the fuck are you doing?"

Disoriented, the blonde frowned: "I'm giving myself to you."

The cynic's face twisted into a grimace of pain, like he was about to cry.

"Better if you don't." he croaked.

"Wait, what?!"

"I can't."

Honestly, Enjolras was taken aback. He recovered quickly and reacted in the most natural way he knew: using logic. Logic had always been his biggest ally, never failing to give him a lucid mind, control, strength. And incidentally, it would prove he was right even this time.

"I dare say it's quite undeniable that you actually _can_." He retorted with a firm, sharp tone, the type with which he usually put an end to whistles at protests or made police officers feel like retiring.

"That's not the point!" Grantaire whined.

"You do want me."

"Shut up!"

"And I want you. I'm sure that getting physical is just the natural next step, especially considering that we both want it."

"Fuck, Enjolras! Only a few hours ago we thought we couldn't stand each other to save our lives!"

Enjolras seemed to ponder the words, but only someone who didn't know him would have thought he was about to give up.

"I know that our relationship has just begun, at least on the romantic level... but you can't deny that we've waited this moment for so long already. Are you telling me that three years are not enough?"

Grantaire pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes hard, until white spots floated behind his eyelids. That was madness at its finest. It was bad luck giving him both middle fingers.

"You don't know what the fuck you're asking for, Enjolras, you really don't!" he hissed through gritted teeth.

The blond straightened his back and clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowed to a slit behind which a terrifying stormy sea was stirring.

"I'm not so innocent as to not know the basic mechanics of gay sex."

"This is the fucking worst!" Grantaire said in a faint voice "Please, Enjolras, tell me you're not trying to sweet-talk me into have sex with you! We're not having this conversation! I refuse to fight over doing it with you, for Chist's sake!"

"But we're not fighting!" Enjolras said, honestly surprised "I'm just saying that..."

"We can't do it!" the cynic interrupted him, wide-eyed as if he'd just remembered something of vital importance "We can't, okay? You're injured, Apollo! You told me you fell on your sacrum so hard that you were shuffling, so..."

"Yeah, right, but then Jehan gave me painkillers. Nice try, anyway." Enjolras huffed with a roll of eyes.

"Fuck! Enjolras, please, just cut it out! Why can't you let me have it, just for once?!"

But the leader didn't listen to him.

"It's because I'm a virgin, isn't it?" he ventured "I'm well aware I'm inexperienced and perhaps at first you'll have to be patient, but I promise I'll do my best, Grantaire. I'm a quick learner, so everything will soon get bett... mmph!"

Fast and unexpected, Grantaire clamped a hand over the leader's mouth and pressed the other at the back of his head, the pressure delicate yet firm enough to prevent Apollo freeing himself from the grasp.

"That. Is. Enough." Grantaire articulated slowly, his voice almost reduced to a whisper as if he was afraid that someone else, besides Enjolras, could hear him. More likely, he was just desperately trying to stay calm and contain the convulsed, crazy laughter that was swelling inside him, ready to flare up at any moment.

Grantaire was damn sure he was on the edge of insanity. This time he was hallucinating for real and one step away from winning a first class single ticket to a mental institution. He felt woozy in a way he'd never experienced with alcohol: it was a new level of grogginess altogether, but for some sadistic paradox his mind was painfully lucid, whereas Grantaire would had paid a fortune to be blissfully unconscious.

Enjolras wanted to make love to him. He even had the guts to fucking _insist_! And he kept saying terrifying things like that he was a virgin and wanted to learn! He had spoken with that innocent tone, the bastard, like he hadn't a damned clue about how much Grantaire was craving to teach him!

The artist felt like laughing and crying his heart out at the same time. His back and forehead were covered in cold sweat and the skin prickled as if the hair behind his neck was standing on end. He felt like a hunted animal.

"Do not speak, okay? Shush. Shut up. Don't dare say another word, not a single fucking word or, God help me, I will lose my mind. Christ Almighty! I can't believe you're insisting on wanting to sleep with me! It's a nightmare, an excruciating torture! I'm trying really fucking hard to resist you and you're not helping me, Enjolras, not at all! So, before my poor brain dies because I don't have a drop of blood from the waist up anymore... I beg you to listen to me, for once, and stop teasing me!"

It was safe to think Grantaire had spoken all in one breath because he feared that the slightest pause or hesitation would be the last of it. The young man swallowed twice, but that didn't help in calming his laboured breathing. The outburst had partially distracted him, letting him take notice of Enjolras' expression only now and...

"Oh, fuck."

The blue fire had stopped flaring up in the revolutionary's eyes. The stormy sea that had made Grantaire shiver just a few moments ago had subsided with incredible speed, letting something anew surface. Something too similar to pain for Grantaire not to now make a fatal mistake.

Afraid of having hurt his love's feelings, he moved his hand away from Enjolras' mouth.

"You don't want me enough." the blond deadpanned.

And here it was, Grantaire's undoing, the last little push that make him hit the breaking point.

The artist burst into a uncontrollable, roaring laughter that seemed to have no end. It went on and on like this, as loud as a liberating shout, as jaw-dropping as a burp during mass. Grantaire managed to muffle it only a few seconds at time, desperatly biting his lips hard and covering his mouth with both hands. But he needed to breath and then the hysterical laughter had the upper hand again, making him almost howl, then theehee like a moron, until a convulsed, crazy fit of giggles would manage to choke him a second later. Poor Grantaire laughed to the point that, in all probability, no language could offer enough adjectives to fully describe his laughter. Soon his belly hurt like hell and big tears trickled down his cheeks, which were reddened by the effort of breathing and, above all, stopping that delirium.

To think that, actually, Grantaire wasn't even having fun...

Hearing that laughter, anyone would have sworn that the artist had gone insane and Grantaire himself was more than inclined to believe the same. Seriously, that would be the perfect moment to disappear into a very deep hole into the ground and never come back.

Mind you, to complete the scene - or to better say to stress even more Grantaire's misery - there was Enjolras: silent, still, frightnening patient. Just like an iceberg. Arms folded across his chest, the blond waited for the cynic's laughter to end. It didn't happen soon.

When the laughter had died down to sporadic sobs, Grantaire wiped the tears with the back of his hand.

"I can explain." was the first thing he said as soon as he managed to get out actual words beside strangled sounds; then he kept repeating, between large gulps of air: "I'm sorry, so fucking sorry..."

Enjolras' frown was enough to let Grantaire get the hint: he had, no, he _needed_ to explain himself quickly, otherwise God knew what the blond would have done. Grantaire shivered at the thought. It was a miracle that Enjolras hadn't punched him in the face already, offended by that stupid and inappropriate laugh. In fact, he hadn't even make a sound, when at the Musain he usually yelled at the infuriating drunkard, hurling threats at him and hissing insults that cut to the bone. A reaction so calm was by far unlike him. At a meeting the revolutionary's fury would easily burst for much less and...

"Oh."

The cynic gasped as he felt a strange feeling pooling in his chest. Realisation made his heart soar and drop at the same time.

"Enjolras..." he breathed.

It couldn't be. It would be too much. And yet, when Grantaire looked at the blond in the eyes, he knew he was right: his Apollo loved him to the point that he had hold back his rage, instead of hitting him or storming out of the room and out of the artist's life. If that wasn't the biggest demonstration of love Grantaire had ever seen, he didn't know what else it could be.

Where was Apollo's righteous rage, now? It seemed it had disappeared and Grantaire's heart tightened a little more. Enjolras' eyes didn't look like a stormy sea anymore, but like a cloudy sky: they were as sad as winter rain and so shadowed they looked almost grey. Even though the boy wasn't crying, his gaze was soul-ripping like when he had confessed his love to Grantaire between sobs.

"I'm sorry." Grantaire repeated, wetting his dry lips "Enjolras, I can't even imagine how much courage you needed to work up to ask, nor how much vulnerable you're right now." he paused, but sensing that Enjolras was about to protest, he went on: "Yes, I can tell you're feeling vulnerable. That's the first reason I'm feeling like the biggest prick in the universe for having laughed. Believe me: I didn't laugh at you. Fuck, I shouldn't have reacted like that anyway, but... it was just too much to stand, okay? _Me_ , not wanting _you_ enough to looking forward for sex? _Really_ , Enjolras?! That's exactly what I meant when I said you don't have the slightest clue about your beauty and charm! Doubting my desire for you is like wondering if a starving man would fancy an all-you-can-eat buffet!"

Encouraged by the sheepish smile tugging at Enjolras' lips, Grantaire raised a hand to frame his cheek "Every fibre of my being burns for you." he confessed, tracing the cheekbone with his rough thumb "I'm bleeding for you, _ange_. I’ve never wanted anyone as much as I want you. I could die happy even now, just because we kissed."

Enjolras frowned. "Then why are you turning me down?"

"Hey, easy with blasphemy, Enjolras. I'm not turning you down."

"Yes, you are."

"Wrong. I'm..." the artist's mouth twitched in a grimace, betraying he had difficulty in finding a more fitting verb "I'm resisting?" he finally offered and emphasised his words by first clutching his hands to his chest, then throwing them up in the air, eyebrows raised and eyes wide as to ask: _"What else might it be?"_

Enjolras frowned at him, clearly unconvinced. "Why? Is it some seduction technique?"

"What?! Jesus, no!"

"So I'm right: it's totally useless!"

"I'm just... putting it off. We found out we love each other just a few hours ago, for fuck's sake! Quite frankly, I think it's too soon to try something... physical."

"That's ridiculous." was Enjolras’ huffed reply "We're both consenting adults and our feelings are mutual, so there's no point in dancing around it!"

Grantaire barely managed to stifle a new fit of giggles in time. It was crazy that Enjolras, despite all his natural sensuality, could talk about sex in such an anti-erotic way!

"S-Sorry."

"Grantaire, please, don't try my patience any longer." Enjolras warned.

"I know!" he groaned "I'm not supposed to say no to you, Apollo! It's abnormal, unnatural, and I'm quite sure it'll bring long-term damage to my health! I swear I can hear my neurons exploding like popcorn! This is not how our first hours as a couple should be!"

"It's exactly like this you're making them be!" Enjolras retorted.

"Listen, Apollo, I want our first time together to be perfect, an experience that you'll remember without regrets, not something fast and messy. I don't want you to think: what the hell, did I really wait years for this?? God, Enjolras, the point is that I don't want to just make love to you... I want you to want to do it _again_! Again and again! Do you get the difference? Does my wish seem weird to you?"

Seeing the blond was silent, deep in thoughts, the cynic dared hope that maybe...

"How do you know for sure that it won't be perfect anyway?"

Okay, one bloody point for the revolutionary and his notorious logic! Grantaire let out a string of curses but Enjolras didn't even flinch.

"Do you want to wait for me?" he pressed on "That's unnecessary, Grantaire. I want you, end of story. I don't need candlelight, strawberries, whipped cream or John Coltrane's music in the background to have good memories of our first time!"

Grantaire stared at him blankly.

Enjolras gave a little cough. "I may or may not have overheard Courfeyrac giving Combeferre some advice in the matter of seduction." he admitted sheepishly "Personally I'm not a big fan of jazz."

"Neither is 'Ponine." Grantaire observed flatly "Nor Jehan."

God knew that it wasn't a joke at all, but the comment managed to make Enjolras chuckle and the artist relaxed a bit as he felt tension loosening its grip on him.

"Now I understand a few things!" Enjolras commented with an amused grin.

"Me too." Grantaire said.

He frowned as his smile faded a little. Thinking of Courfeyrac reminded him of the awkward messages he and Enjolras had received from their friend. With embarrassment and homicidal rage heating up his face, he’d deleted the texts in haste before turning off his and Apollo's phones. Fuck off Courfeyrac and fuck off his shitty allusions to innocent little lambs! Grantaire needed to think about Enjolras' virtue as much as a moth needs to see a lighted candle. Just stay on topic. And anyway... strawberries and whipped cream? Seriously?!

"Then we agree." Grantaire cleared his throat, trying to shake off any thought concerning bloody Courfeyrac "Coltrane is permanently banned from our playlist. We'll find someone else. No jazz music, no moths... I m-mean, candles!"

Enjolras put a hand on his and squeezed it fondly.

"Make love to me, Grantaire, please."

Grantaire was tired of resisting and it was worrying him. To renounce mood music, candlelight or whatnot didn't bother him anyway. And yet, he was convinced Enjolras deserved something very special.

"I told you, I need some time to recover from finding out you don't hate me."

The leader nodded slowly and leaned forward to give Grantaire a quick peck on the lips.

"Maybe this will help you to recover sooner."

Grantaire groaned and said humourlessly: "So it's true. You're a quick learner."

Enjolras smiled. He tried to kiss the black-curled man again, but Grantaire pressed a finger against his lips, stopping him.

"You always get what you want, don't you?" he murmured whilst his fingertip moved along the line of Enjolras’ jaw, caressing it.

"No." the blond corrected him without a bit of hesitation "I'm just used to never giving up."

Again with that confident, unmistakable tone: the same that the revolutionary used when giving a speech, a sort of trademark that Grantaire knew very well. Yet now in Enjolras' voice there was something different, a shade so light that he wondered if it was just a sensation.

"What if you'll regret it?" Grantaire asked, serious.

"It won't happen. I know you'll be gentle."

Oh, fuck, yes... Grantaire wanted to be gentle with Enjolras, very much, for days and nights until they turned into weeks. He wanted to seduce his god slowly, show him every aspect of physical pleasure and how many secrets were hidden in his untouched, lithe body. Surely there couldn't be any higher aspiration than being the man who would make Enjolras fall in love with sex. But for such noble and desirable task, the artist needed time.

Heedless of any doubt or fear, used to answering only to instinct, Grantaire's cock twitched again, demanding attention. It was far too ready to make its awakening evident, its throbbing more and more difficult to ignore at every second. The artist cursed under his breath, knowing he was about to be snared for good.

"What if _I_ 'll be the one who regret it?"

At that unexpected question, Enjolras frowned, looking as he was considering Grantaire's doubt. Naturally, he wasn't discouraged even then.

"I'll find a way to avoid it."

"How can you say something like that, Enjolras? We're talking about your first time, not..."

"My virginity is mine to give to whom I want, whenever and wherever I want!" Enjolras interrupted him vehemently, straightening his back, his chin tilted up in defiance "I claim the right to decide what to do of my body freely, as I always did!"

The cynic cursed worse than before.

"This is not your cause, Apollo! I never fucking doubted that you can make your own choices, but maybe this time your choice is not as good as you think! We're not at a meeting and there's no crowd to convince in the matter of sexual freedom or whatever! We're talking about you and me, about something that's only ours and..."

His voice trailed off in mid-sentence. Grantaire was unable to go on, at least aloud.

"... and I'm scared to no end because I might hurt you!"

It would have been great to be able to actually say it. But the fear of sounding like an idiot stopped Grantaire. He felt lost. In his mind, that phrase sounded crystal clear, a few simple words so easy to say... If only the cynic could have overcome that obstacle, maybe then Enjolras would have understood and changed his mind.

Grantaire sighed. He was aware of being gifted with a nice cock quite above average, but he was even more aware of the fact that his beloved was very inexperienced. And he'd never been with a virgin in all his life. Granted, being Enjolras' first would be an honour, a wet dream coming true, but it was undeniable that, whilst imagining having sex with Apollo, Grantaire had never worried about the practical side of things. They were just wild fantasies and worked so differently from reality that dream-Grantaire didn't even need to use lube, for Christ's sake! Now the artist was feeling legitimately anxious.

Enjolras had listened to Grantaire in unreadable silence, his head bowed. A curl had slipped from the golden halo of his hair to fall over the forehead, without him having felt the need to tuck it behind his ear. At the abrupt interruption, Enjolras slowly looked up at the artist from under his long eyelashes, a glint of hope clear in his eyes.

"Take me, Grantaire."

The cynic clenched his fists so tight his knuckles turned white.

_"Calm... I need to stay... calm..."_

"I thought we went over it." he managed to say at last "I told you how much it affects me when you call me by name, didn't I?"

Just as expected, all his warnings were keeping going unheeded. The worst thing was that the fearless leader was turning out to be to irresponsible for his own good.

"Grantaire." Enjolras repeated with a voice so hot it could have made dozens and dozens of angels fall from Heaven, driven crazy by lust.

It was a "bedroom voice": there wasn't a better description for it. Apollo's voice was sweet and dangerous, full of challenges and promises at the same time. He looked like temptation personified as he undid the top buttons of his shirt slowly, revealing skin so fair that it was hard to believe that the sunlight had touched it even once.

Grantaire was frozen to the spot, wide-eyed.

"Grantaire..."

"Bloody hell, Enjolras!" willpower was failing the artist, little by little, and when Enjolras’ hand covered his again, sheepishly, Grantaire bit his lips almost to the point of tasting blood "S-Stop, please!"

His cock was throbbing painfully under the fabric, making Grantaire hiss. At this point, Enjolras was the only one who could put the artist's desire back to sleep. Grantaire took in a long, unsteady breath, and his eyelids fluttered closed. He wanted to touch and be touched, to get lost in the mystery of Apollo's body to the point of forgetting his own name. When he had confessed his feelings, he had praised the blond with words, but now he needed to worship his god using kisses and love bites instead. Grantaire craved to draw on Enjolras' creamy skin wings, leaves, clouds and flames, using his calloused fingers as brushes. He ached to write prayers on his body with his tongue and songs with his breath and, above all, he wanted to hear Apollo answering each of them with moans and soft cries.

Enjolras gave him another kiss and, even though it was pressed on the cheek, it burned like the previous ones.

"Oh, 'Taire..."

Why keep begging for mercy, when it was denied so firmly and Grantaire didn't even want it for real? What he really wanted was to take Enjolras. He wanted to get him ready to welcome his first cock, to finger him slowly until he was slick with lube and out of breath. He would cherish forever every sob, every shiver. Ah, how he longed to feel the tight grip of Enjolras' untouched hole, to have it clench on his fingers, one at time, and then on his aching cock. Yes, he could do it, he would be so careful... He would push inside Enjolras little by little, gently, kissing away inevitable tears on his face as his length was bedded into the warmth of that gorgeous body. Grantaire growled, desperate and almost in pain, knowing very well he was about to surrender... and that he actually wanted to. God, he wanted so much to give in to his urges, to the lust that had so naturally mingled with love since he had saw Apollo for the first time!

"You're wonderful, R. So beautiful..." the leader murmured in his ear, making him gasp.

Of all the Amis, Enjolras was the only one who had never called him by his nickname. His long fingers intertwined behind the nape of Grantaire's neck, tangling in the thick hair; his mouth made its way up to the ear, leaving butterfly kisses on the unshaved skin.

"My sweet Benoît..."

Grantaire choked on air. Fuck, this was definitely playing dirty!

Hearing his beloved call him by name, with that liquid voice, sent a jolt of warmth right to the cynic's groin.

The artist let out a sob.

The indomitable revolutionary, that Apollo more chaste than Artemis and more impetuous than Ares, had won. Was it really extraordinary or unexpected? The outcome of the battle had been clear from the very beginning, even though Grantaire had deluded himself thinking otherwise. Everything had been decided in a second, the first time Enjolras had asked the cynic to make love to him.

In the past years, hadn't Grantaire repeated over and over again he was ready to do whatever the revolutionary would ask him? Hadn't he sworn it? Wasn't this his deepest wish since their first meeting?

Grantaire made his decision. There was no going back now. To hell with any sense of guilt that would come later.

 _"Okay, okay..."_ he thought _"You won, Enjolras, fuck, you won."_

Truth be told, what surprised him the most was that he didn't give in to his hunger the way he had feared, jumping Enjolras like an animal in heat.

Trembling hands found Enjolras’ sides and touched them with a little more steadiness at every stroke, then they finally stopped shaking. The warmth of Apollo's skin was barely perceptible from under the fabric of the shirt, but Grantaire felt his fingers tingle nonetheless.

Hard to tell whether it was the artist who was more nervous or Apollo instead, despite the boldness with which he shielded himself. That doubt was answered shortly afterwards, when Enjolras' shivering become so strong it was noticeable.

"I... Well..." he hesitated "Tell me what to do."

Saying that Enjolras was anxious would be an understatement: he was in fact terrified and one step from breaking down. Unfortunately, Grantaire was right: apparently sex required a kind of courage completely different from what the leader prided himself on. When he had spoken, his insistence had become gradually a lie and his confidence a poor imitation of the one with which he fought for Patria. Though his desire for Grantaire was sincere and strong, though the artist's slightest touch made him tremble like he was naked already, Enjolras had stubbornly insisted motivated mostly by a fear of rejection. Being taken by Grantaire would be the confirmation he needed, the irrefutable proof that it wasn't just one of those beautiful dreams from which Enjolras would wake up with his heart broken.

He desperately wanted that proof.

Nonetheless, every time he'd asked Grantaire to make love to him, his own words had weakened a little more. Now Enjolras was at his limit: he was about to collapse and not even sure what the actual reason was.

Was he feeling so fragile because Grantaire hadn't said yes yet?

Or maybe it was because Enjolras knew that, as soon as the cynic would gave in, he wouldn't be able to predict, nor control anything anymore? Not a single touch from Grantaire's skilled hands and warm lips, nor the faintest gasp that soon would came out from his own mouth...

Enjolras pressed his forehead to Grantaire's, tears tingling at the edge of his eyes.

 _"No! Enough with crying! Get a grip!"_ he told himself, holding the tears back: he was feeling weak enough already _"Focus on Grantaire, on his hands. They feel good, don't they?... Y-Yes, like this... Come on, breath, it's easy... Oh God, they're so warm..."_

The blond's breath hitched as a thrill snaked down his body, from nape to toes.

"Think of his body, how perfect it is... I just need to be strong a little longer, then it'll be mine... I'll be able do to Grantaire all the things I've always dreamt... I want this. I love him. Everything will be fine. After all, it's just... sex."

Enjolras felt dizzy.

People always praised his ability to speak to large crowds like it was the easiest thing in the world. At protests he was able to face hostile policemen without flinching, not leaving the front line of the parade even when things would get out of hand. So it was frustrating, to say the least, that he was finding so hard to give himself up to something as natural as sex. His notorious nerves of steel had turned cowardly because of an activity that people had done since the dawn of time.

He hated feeling so helpless and unsure. What the hell was he supposed to do? He was used to being in control of the situation, to surveying everything, to pondering carefully and foreseeing people's reaction, no matter what. He was always the one who decided the next move and had the last word. Enjolras had leadership rooted inside him: he was born that way, or at least he'd been "the Chief" for so long that he had legitimately never even thought of acting different. It wasn't like he didn't trust people, of course not! He would entrust his life in his friends' hands without hesitation, but this... Jesus, this was far, far too different!

Enjolras opened and closed his lips a few times, but not a sound came out.

"I'm afraid."

It was hard to admit it even to himself. Leaded by instinct, he circled Grantaire's shoulders with his arms, hiding his face in the crock of the artist's neck. This time Enjolras didn't pepper the skin with kisses: he was too concentrated on taking large breaths. He held on the dark-haired man, perhaps without even realizing how much he needed to feel Grantaire's solid body.

The blond wasn't afraid of pain, really: he knew it would be over soon and that Grantaire would be careful. For a second, he wondered if the painkillers would be of any help: now his sacrum was feeling numb and... Damn, okay, maybe he actually was a little nervous about the burning sensation, but still!

It was _intimacy_ that scared him above everything, that's it.

He remembered those unpleasant thoughts that had made him stand like frozen in front of the apartment door, his vision blurred and his mind reduced to a blizzard of doubts.

All his last defences were about to crumble soon. Enjolras was going to strip himself of his strength and pride, until only his fears would be left: it would be up to Grantaire to decide what to do with them, whether to make them linger or disappear. Yes, Enjolras was going to allow the artist to see him vulnerable, like nobody had ever been able to before. He would be soexposed that any doubt about being naked in front of Grantaire – _"Will he think I'm too pale or too slender? Will I be up to his expectations?"_ \- seemed now utterly ridiculous.

"Lead me." he finally said, raising his head to meet Grantaire’s gaze "I'll do anything you want."

Something had clearly changed and Enjolras' words didn't sound teasing anymore. It was impossible for Grantaire not to notice it.

"All right." his voice was hoarse and it almost seemed that he was talking to himself rather than to Enjolras "Got it."

A short nod, then his large hands framed Enjolras' face to pull him into a kiss. Gentle at first, Grantaire coaxed the blond's mouth open. Little by little the kiss turned into something more carnal, with the slow pace of the movements that stressed its sensuality and, at the same time, managed to keep the leader's nervousness at bay. It seemed that Enjolras was like wax in the artist's hands, now that his agitation couldn't be hidden anymore. Was that true or just another trick of Grantaire's mind? It didn't matter anymore, he decided as he went on kissing Enjolras with such tenderness that the blond's heart tightened, despite its furious beating.

"Let yourself go, _mon ange_." Grantaire whispered as his palms slid down Enjolras' torso, then over the small of his back, moving in little, reassuring circles "There's no reason to be so tense. It will feel good, I promise."

"Y-Yes..."

They kissed again, as if there hadn't been any interruption at all.

But against all his good intentions, Enjolras couldn't bring himself to relax. He did his best to follow the movements of the other's tongue, hoping that that was enough no to arouse the cynic's suspicions. It was like the harder Enjolras tried to stay calm, the more he was aware of what was going to happen. He almost could hear a clock ticking in the back of his mind, as if a countdown had begun, and that was crazy, because the leader knew there was no way to anticipate anything! That was the point, damn it! How long it was until Grantaire would begin undressing him or spread his legs wide open and actually take him? How long it was until they'd finally reach orgasm and everything would be over? Enjolras had no idea.

Then a mixture of shame and regret mingled at the pit of his stomach, to the point that he broke the kiss abruptly. Eyes tight closed, he clenched his fingers on Grantaire's shoulders, hard enough to contrast the other's gentle touch. Grantaire inhaled sharply, but he didn't protest.

Enjolras couldn't believe it. What was his problem, to think about his first time that way? He had longed to make love to Grantaire for years, literally! Now it was like his dream was reduced to a to-do list full of things the he was supposed to enjoy, when instead his anxiety couldn't wait to strike them out! He might have been a horrible person, a romantically constipated virgin who was doomed to mess up his first time in the most shameful way possible! Jesus, he still needed to get the hang of _kissing_ , yet he had undone the upper buttons of his shirt, as if he knew how to _flirt_! What the hell was he thinking?!

His fingers moved almost by themselves to the top of the shirt, but then they froze, barely able to trace the rim of the red fabric.

Enjolras hadn't just asked Grantaire to have sex with him: he'd _insisted_ over and over again, he'd almost argued with the cynic, answering to each protest with a nimble reply! How could he draw back now, without looking like the most hypocritical prick ever? He had no heart to do this to Grantaire.

 _"I confessed my feelings to him and he thought it was a cruel joke."_ he remembered with a knot in his throat.

He wouldn't allow it to happen again.

The artist's hands chose that exact moment to rest on his arse and fondle it tentatively. The blond startled nonetheless.

"G-Grantaire!"

Maybe he'd be able to get over the fact that their first time might not be exactly like he'd always imagined, but what about his beloved Grantaire? Enjolras wanted to please him so much! It was almost excruciating, how much he wanted Grantaire to be satisfied.

 _"It won't happen! Get over it!"_ he told himself _"This is not one of my wet dreams and I can't give him the best sex of his life, at least not today and God knows for how long! I'm a virgin! A pathetic little virgin that can't even tell when his partner his rock hard for him! And Grantaire is so experienced there's no way I can compare to any of his lovers! Oh God!"_

Trust the fearless leader to freak out in a moment like that! Sure the paradox would have made Enjolras laugh... if only it would have happened to someone else. Instead mirth couldn't be more distant from the blond's heart: at the moment, all he could think about was the unknown number of Grantaire's past lovers. Enjolras had always told himself it was a blessing that he knew nothing of Grantaire’s affairs, that it hurt less that way. Well, it wasn't true anymore: the image of a crowd of naked women and men was now burning in his mind. They were all breathtakingly beautiful, far too much confident with their nudity and an irritating air of superiority was lingering all around them. The revolutionary felt like he was facing a firing squad.

When Grantaire tugged him closer, Enjolras' whole body tensed, openly resisting.

"Enjolras, are you okay?"

Grantaire's concerned voice made himraise his head. The imaginary crowd of lovers turned into a light fog and disappeared. Enjolras' look focused again, but his doubts were still there.

"Oh God." the leader whimpered "Grantaire, I... I've never..."

Grantaire smiled fondly. "I know, my love."

His shoulders sinking, Enjolras gave him a look of genuine disbelief. "No, Grantaire, you don't get it! I've no idea what to do! I'll be clumsy and awkward and..."

"Enjolras." the artist interrupted him. He took his time to scan the other's expression "Are you sure?" he asked, raising a dark eyebrow ever so slightly.

"W-What?"

As the cynic inhaled slowly through his nose, the revolutionary couldn't help wondering if it was a sign of irritation or what else.

"Apollo, you know there's no rule saying when a couple have to become more intimate, so to speak."

Enjolras nodded automatically.

"And you also know that it's fine if you've changed your..."

"But I haven’t!" the leader blurted out "I haven’t changed my mind, Grantaire, I swear! It's just that..."

"Yes, love?"

Enjolras left his hands drop into his lap. Discomfort was clear on his face, as it was in his tone when he forced himself to say: "I'll be terrible."

"Oh, I learned that you're capable of being terrible a long time ago!" the dark-haired man joked.

"Be serious!" Enjolras warned, repressing the urge of smacking the artist on the arm "I mean, I'm new at this sort of thing, so much that it won't be a big surprise when it'll turn out I'm the worst lover ever."

"Hey!" Grantaire said crossly "How can you say something like this? Come on, sex is one of the most natural things in the world, like eating or sleep! It's not rocket science! Really, there's no need to be worried!"

Another nod, yet Enjolras didn't feel much comfort in that reasurrance. Yeah, sex was so natural that he was freaking out over his first time. Wasn't it great? The leader chewed on his lower lip.

"I've no doubt that you'll take care of me in every way, Grantaire. But what about you?"

The artist blinked. "What about me?" he echoed.

Exasperated, Enjolras rolled his eyes: "Why do you pretend not to get it? Face it, I don't have one tenth of your experience and, in all likelihood, however hard I'll try, I'll never be as good as you! I want to please you and I'll really try my best, Grantaire, but I can't shake off the feeling that, no matter what, it'll never be nowhere near enough to what you deserve!"

The little outburst had clearly taken Grantaire aback and now he was staring at Enjolras, shocked. Then something inside him clicked.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!" he said, almost indignant "For God's sake, Enjolras, have you lost your mind?! Sex is not a damned competition or at least it'll never and ever be so for us, if I have any say in the matter! Honestly I don't give a flying fuck about your lack of experience, it's not like being a virgin is a crime, a curse, a handicap or something to be ashamed of! I just want you to be sure and comfortable, whatever it is you want to do!" Grantaire stopped, his eyes still locked with Enjolras' and brightening with the same disbelief and concern which were so evident in his voice. Seeing that his Apollo seemed still a little uncertain, he asked: "Are we on the same page, here, Enjolras?"

The other lowered his gaze, looking in deep thought, but soon he answered: "Yes, we are. But... Well, I was told that collaboration plays a very big part in good sex. You know, for... mutual pleasure. And I'm still not sure that I'll manage not to make an idiot of myself, so..." his words trailed off into silence and the young man shrugged, not knowing what else he could add.

A fond smile curved the artist's lips. His golden god was a true wonder: who knew there was so much uncertainty and shyness hidden under his armour? Grantaire chuckled.

"Right, collaboration is important. It's almost as sexy as consent. And do you know what else is very, very sexy? Communicating. Exactly what we're doing right now! Yeah, communication never fails to get me hot..." he waggled his eyebrows in a flirty way, but the frown on Enjolras' face made him add quickly: "Don't worry, love, I'm not kidding! Just... trying to make you relax a bit. And I've aced out the task, I'd say!" he added as his hands moved again on the small of Enjolras' back.

It was true: Grantaire's words had soothed Enjolras, distracting him from his doubts, at least in part. Under the artist's touch, the revolutionary's back muscles were less and less tense and his eyes almost fluttered closed at the calming sensation.

The blond sighed. "So... are we going to do it?"

He was almost afraid of asking or, to be correct, getting an answer: what if he had killed the mood?

Grantaire ran a hand through is unruly curls, mouth twitched and eyes closed half-way, as if he was considering the question and wasn't sure how to answer. Enjolras held his breath.

"Well, I don't know." Grantaire finally said, studying Enjolras through his half-lidded stare "It depends. Are you sure you want to do it now? Mind you, Apollo, by sure I mean really, deep-to-your-bones-and-soul sure, because even if I've wanted you since forever, I won't lay a finger on you until you'll be ready."

What kept Enjolras from saying yes at once was the fear that Grantaire might have misunderstood his eagerness. God, Enjolras had never been more sure in all his life and that was saying something! He waited, focussing on his own breathing: when it became more even, he spoke.

"I'm sure."

For a long moment, there was just silence.

 _"Please, please, he can't think it's a lie!"_ Enjolras prayed.

"You're not saying that just because you want to... please me, are you?"

The leader shook his head with firmness.

"Nor because you think you need to prove something, maybe to yourself?"

Enjolras' eyes widened in surprise. Since when Grantaire had the ability of reading him like an open book?

"No." he said "I mean, maybe those were some of the reasons, before."

Grantaire hummed. "Is it the same, now?"

"No." Enjolras looked at Grantaire straight in the eyes "Now I want to do it because I need you, in every way possible."

A large, beaming smile lit up the dark-haired man's face. He caressed Enjolras' cheek with the back of his fingers, tenderly, as if the revolutionary was made of glass. Grantaire was still feeling like he was trespassing on some boundary, daring touch a god with his humble, calloused hands. Everything was so dreamy that a big part of his mind was still struggling hard to accept it as real. The man moved his fingertips trough the golden curls on the side of Enjolras' face, slowly curling up a fat lock around the index. Instead of tugging at it, he watched the leader lean his cheek against the palm, lingering into its comforting warmth, then turn his head enough to plant a little kiss on the wrist.

Grantaire felt his heart flutter. Since Enjolras had confessed he loved him, it seemed like every minute was presenting him with new things to adore about the blond. Grantaire would never had guessed that his Apollo could be like this: unsure, when anybody knew him as a fearless leader, and sensual in the most breath-taking way, even if Enjolras was ridiculously unaware of it.

"Please, Grantaire." the blond murmured, his breath tingling against the tender flesh.

 _"He's so trusting ..."_ the artist thought, before finally giving the lock a little tug: Enjolras gasped, but his surprise turned in a languid expression right away, as if he had actually waited for it.

"You're gorgeous, Enjolras. Tell me you know it. Tell me." Grantaire said, but his tone wasn't imperious at all: on the contrary, it was reverent and reminded that of someone who barely dares ask for something.

Enjolras leaned more in Grantaire's hand, a sheepish smile on his lips. The artist just couldn't tell if it was real or he was just reading too much into it, but it looked like that smile was a code for a not-verbal answer: _"I believe it just because it's you who says so."_

Grantaire leaned forward for another kiss. For a fraction of a second, just before he closed his eyelids, something new sparkled in his gaze. He felt it turn into a shiver as soon as Enjolras' mouth touched his. Grantaire pressed the tip of his tongue against Enjolras’ lower lip and the other opened his mouth to him obediently.

_"Yes... So pliant for me."_

Grantaire allowed himself to change the pace of the kiss, first deepening it and then making it lighter, almost chaste before it turned intense again. Enjolras showed no signs of drawing back, even though his difficulty in matching the skilled movements of Grantaire's tongue was clear. The kiss ended after several moments, only when he was sure that Enjolras would be out of breath. Their foreheads pressed together, the dark-haired man waiting, listening to his own and Enjolras’ laboured breathing evening out: they sounded like the sweetest tune in the world. A slight bumping of noses initiated an eskimo kiss and Grantaire hummed happily.

Enjolras was accepting him: there was no other way to explain it. He was welcoming Grantaire not only as an equal, but, as crazy as it sounded, as someone so worthy of his trust that the revolutionary was willing to... submit to him? God, no, Enjolras would never submit to anyone, not in a billion years!

He was silently giving Grantaire permission to lead him, because he _trusted_ him.

Enjolras wanted to be his.

And Grantaire wanted to scream with joy until his throat was a sore, burning mess.

"Tell me what to do." Enjolras said.

"Just relax. Try not to think about anything. Let it happen."

His advice was met with a huff. "How am I supposed to not _think_?"

Grantaire chuckled: Enjolras’ confusion was almost palpable, to the point that he was sure he'd have sensed it even if the other hadn't voiced it. Old habits die hard and, for a natural leader, it had to be shocking not to be able to anticipate in details what was about to happen. And in fact...

"Tell me what you're going to do, then."

"Just taking care of you."

And before Enjolras could say anything, Grantaire brushed aside the collar of Enjolras' half open shirt, exposing more of that flawless skin than he had ever hoped to see. His palm pressed gently against the chest, just above the breastbone, with two fingers slipping under the fabric, up and down, up and down, in a way that was shy and a little teasing all the same. Grantaire drank in the fair colour of Enjolras’ skin and the contrast with his own, dark enough to look like he was tanned even in December.

With his left hand braced against Enjolras' hip, the dark-curled man leaned forwards and began to suck on the sensitive spot where the softness of his golden god's neck connected with the sharp angles of shoulder and collarbone. Enjolras stiffened, but he didn't protest: not even when Grantaire sucked harder, almost to the point of pain, and then nibbled lightly at the reddened skin. Instead, Enjolras' arms encircled his shoulders tightly and trembling fingers fisted in inky hair, urging Grantaire to give him more. The cynic obliged with a low growl, even more turned on by the heartbeat that was increasing under his lips. He felt something strange, a sort of alpha-maleish pride thinking that he was marking that creamy skin with a nice love-bite to hide from prying eyes in the days to come.

At some point, Grantaire’s fingers began undoing the last buttons of Enjolras’ shirt, exposing his chest little by little and taking time to dust the skin with butterfly touches. When the uneven, ruined edge of his nails scraped across the chest, from a spot dangerously close to the right nipple to another near the navel, Enjolras hissed with a powerful shiver. A final scrape of teeth, then Grantaire withdrew from Enjolras’ neck, licking his lips with evident satisfaction. He looked at the hickey. Enjolras' first hickey. He couldn't help a smug, lopsided grin at the thought.

"Quite touch-starved, huh, Apollo?" he asked, looking up at Enjolras

Enjolras gaped at him: it was very hard to tell if he was more shocked by Grantaire’s boldness or by how his ministrations had made him feel, instead.

"Gran... taire!" he said in a faint voice "W-What..."

But he didn't have time to finish the sentence, because Grantaire grabbed his arse again and gave it a nice squeeze, taking the blond's breath away.

There was no hint of hesitation in Grantaire’s touch: he tightened his grip on Enjolras’s rear and tugged him closer, lifting him a little so that he could get the hint. The leader let Grantaire lift him gently and moved his long legs until he was straddling the artist's lap, hands resting on his shoulders. Enjolras noticed that this new position drew attention to the height difference between them, although his attention was soon drawn elsewehere.

With heat pooling under the skin and rippling across his body, the blond hesitated before lowering his gaze.

When he did, his breath seemed to stick in the back of his throat for a long moment and the foreign feeling of someone else's hands on his arse was forgotten.

Their erections were separated by mere centimetres.

Enjolras’ tight jeans were getting increasingly uncomfortable, although, compared to Grantaire’s cargo pants, they were doing a far better job at holding a hard on at bay. In fact, the cynic’s arousal couldn't have been more evident: his cock wasn't just a tell-tale bulge anymore, now it was stretching the fabric with a full erection. It was, Enjolras thought, deliciously obscene..

Enjolras stared openly, unable to look away. He blinked hard before trying to measure the length by sight. His lips pressed in a trembling line, he inhaled sharply through the nose. Then he squeezed his eyes shut for a few seconds, opened them and tried again.

Grantaire was large, no doubt about that. His clothed cock was simply mouth-watering, even more than those in all the online pictures Enjolras had saved in a very well hidden folder on his laptop. The thought made the perfect mixture of excitement and nervousness slide down Enjolras' body, heating it up even more. When the blond raised his eyes, he found Grantaire staring back at him without the slightest hint of shame.

 _"Why should he be ashamed, since we're going to do it?"_ the pragmatic leader thought, a new shiver spiralling.

All the embarrassment the artist had shown before seemed to have been eclipsed by something else. There was lust in Grantaire's gaze, of course, a primal need as if the dark-haired man wanted to devour Enjolras. But there were also concern in that longing stare: Grantaire scanned his beloved's face with attentive eyes, looking for any sign that allow him to continue.

Sensing it, Enjolras bit the inside of his cheeks.

 _"He's big."_ he told himself _"Oh God, it will hurt even more than I thought..."_ he considered, as another part of him quickly added _"He'll fill me up for good."_

The leader whimpered, but he didn't even tried to deny that that voice was right or how much it reflected his most hidden fantasies.

 _"But... but he'd had plenty of lovers."_ he went on, trying not to let jealousy cloud his mind again. It was just matter-of-fact thinking, he remind himself _"So why should I worry? Clearly he'd never had any... problem before, right?"_

Sure there would be gossip, otherwise. Even between Les Amis. No doubt there would be jokes and low comments from Bahorel and Courfeyrac. Yes, it was impossible that Courf might have missed such hot, juicy gossip, since he could practically smell obscenity miles away. Therefore Grantaire wasn't... excessively endowed.

"Nothing to be scared of. Nothing!"

Maybe it was just the leader’s inexperience tricking him, making Grantaire's cock look more daunting than it actually was. That was more than plausible, Enjolras reasoned.

"He knows what I need. He'll take good care of me."

Taking a gulp of breath, he gave a little nod of consent.

Grantaire didn't need to be told twice. His strong fingers began moving again like they were carefully moulding clay, pulling soft whimpers and "oh's" from the leader's lips. Grantaire groaned in delight as his full-hard cock pulsed at the sound of Enjolras' voice: the way the blond was trying to stifle the gasps biting his lips, obviously in vain, was arousing beyond words.

In all honesty, that arse was by far the finest the cynic had ever touched, and it wasn't just because it belonged to the guy he was hopelessly in love with. It was so sculpted and round and it filled out his jeans in an almost indecent way, as if the fabric was actually glued to the skin. Grantaire inwardly cursed the two pockets that were preventing him from feeling the smooth curve of the muscles in all its glory. He felt like he was a horny teenager again, with his hands full of someone else's body for the first time, marvelling that something could be this firm and soft all the same. The need of feeling warm, naked skin was now getting overwhelming, but to strip down Enjolras he would have to take his hands off him... and he wasn't sure he was ready for that yet. Very carefully, he began drawing a pattern with the pads of index and middle finger pressed together, little by little closer to the sacrum; at the same time, he kept staring at Enjolras, ready to stop at the smallest sign of pain. There was none.

Instead, Enjolras tentatively ground down against the artist's strong hands. Grantaire hissed, a little surprised, and quickly moved his left hand back to the Enjolras’ hip, holding it to prevent their groins from touching each other.

 _"No. Not yet."_ he told himself _"First times are not something to be rushed."_

If Grantaire kept his touch as light as a caress, the leader's buttocks felt like a ripe fruit ready to be bitten, but a steadier pressure was enough to remind him of two nice handfuls of thick dough. The artist trailed his palm across Enjolras' arse again taking his time, like he was a sculptor that had just only finished his ultimate masterpiece and now was touching it in awe, unable to believe it was real.

"What fine marble..." he breathed.

Confusion flickered across Enjolras' face. "I'm not..."

"I know, my love." Grantaire reassured him "Oh, I know very well you're not made of marble. You're no statue, Enjolras, but an extraordinary human being..." and maybe to underline his statement – or in all likelihood just because he could – he slapped the leader playfully on the left buttock, hard enough to make him gasp soundly. The artist smirked. "Yes, _ange_... You're sensitive and warm and full of fire and life. And you'll be such a great lover, Enjolras, the most passionate and responsive ever."

As he spoke, Grantaire slid his palms to Enjolras' flat stomach with a slow, fluid movement, his thumb brushing briefly the rim of the navel. The pads of the fingers glided up the skin smoothly, moving away the fabric until the whole chest was exposed to Grantaire's hungry eyes.

"Will you really let me do whatever I want?" he asked in a low voice, looking up at the blond.

The artist’s voice was full of disbelief and the leader knew, he just knew deep in his heart that Grantaire – the cynic, the pessimist, the guy who kept repeating too often that good things never happen to him – was still finding hard believing that Enjolras actually wanted him.

"Yes." the blond said, taking in a shaking breath "Yes, I trust you."

"Okay. Got it." Grantaire murmured in response, his words sounding like he was speaking to himself more than to his lover.

Gently, he closed his hands around Enjolras' sides and pulled the blond closer, until their clothed erections finally pressed against each other, then he gave a firm thrust forward. The leader cried out and arched his back, shaking with the force of the feeling: Grantaire didn't need more encouragement to roll his hips a few times again, and at each thrust his deep growls were joined by Apollo's strangled sobs.

Enjolras clung to the dark-haired man even more. Waves of pleasure rushed through him, sending shivers down his spine. The sound escaping from Grantaire's lips were almost feral, incredibly close to those that Enjolras was used to imagining he would have made whilst fucking him. Gasping, the leader pressed Grantaire's head to him, holding it against the indent of his neck as though his life depended on it. It seemed that Enjolras was unable to think straight, to the point that he was unaware that his grip on the black curls might be painful. Enjolras' hips were rocking back and forth without the blond could even realize he was moving. He was lost in the sensation of his lover's solid hardness sliding against his own, again and again. The only thing that mattered was Grantaire, how good it felt to have him like this.

Even the mere thought of such intimacy, yet so new to him, was intoxicating. It felt just... right. The feeling was so intense that, when Grantaire stopped abruptly, it echoed inside Enjolras leaving him disoriented and eager for more.

"Did you come?"

Grantaire's question snapped the leader out of his daze. Such a controlled, even tone was unreadable, at least to him. It was infuriating! How could Grantaire sound so calm, when Enjolras was still collecting himself from... what? The blond didn't know. His mind was foggy with desire and... frustration. What had he just experienced?

"N-No."

"Good."

Enjolras licked his lips nervously, wondering if...

"Humm... Did you?"

"No." Grantaire replied and it was strange, but Enjolras would have sworn he heard the faintest hint of amusement in the other man's voice.

Without any warning, Grantaire grabbed hold of the blond's thighs and lifted him like it wasn't any effort, and lowered him on the sofa with a motion smooth and well-practiced. It happened so fast that Enjolras had barely time to yelp before he found himself lying on his back, staring up with blown eyes at a grinning Grantaire hovering over him.

"It would have been a pity, don't you agree?" Grantaire asked, his left hand firm on the sofa arm, as he leaning over until their noses rubbed together.

"You've got a fire inside you, Apollo... Allow me to show you how much it burns."

Enjolras shivered at the words breathed hoarsely against his kiss-swollen lips. Whilst their mouths clashed together in another deep kiss, the image of the blazing sun tattooed on the artist's chest shone behind his eyelids.

"Yes! Yes, please!" the blond begged between gasps as the cynic pulled back with a wet sound.

Grantaire smiled as he ran his free hand up and down the smooth chest, a caress that verged perfectly on teasing and made the muscles ripple in response under his fingertips. He traced a pattern of lazy kisses from the hard line of Enjolras' jaw down to the right pec, then he stopped to drink in the dusty shade of pink of the nipple: the little nub was hard already and tasted delicious in Grantaire's mouth when the man took it between his lips.

Under him, the blond starting shivering and moaning at the first roll of the tongue, whilst his hands clutched hold of the artist's sweatshirt in a desperate grip.

The righteous revolutionary was too new to pleasure to control it and, above all, to know how to fake it. In fact, it was as if Enjolras's body had begun talking to Grantaire in its own language, a sort of code for something that words wouldn't be able to describe, nor explain. The blush spreading down the elegant column of the neck, the shaking breaths, the strong drumming of the heart were voicing all the sensations experienced by the leader, now that his eloquence was failing him. It was the most ancient language of all, so immediate and easy to understand that Grantaire felt exhilarated: he would have sworn that each emotion he was reading on his lover's body vibrated inside him as well, passing through his fingertips at the slightest brush. It was happening fast, to the point that, soon, Grantaire couldn't tell who had felt what feeling first anymore.

The cynic kept sucking the nipple, unsure that the innocent Apollo was ready for something more intense, like a bite. The suspicion was confirmed as soon as Grantaire blew on the wet, sensitive flesh and Enjolras arched his back with a choked moan. Grantaire growled in response. Inwardly, he wondered if the blond had ever played with his nipples whilst masturbating, if he liked to tease them to prolong the sweet agony... Well, Enjolras didn't seem actually used to teasing, if all his "mmmh"s and "aaah"s were something to go by. Grantaire captured the right nipple between his lips to lavish on it the same ministrations, whilst his fingers begun tugging slightly at the other one, now dark pink and glistening. After all, he considered Enjolras was known for his ridiculous habit of getting straight to business, like... all the time and for anything?

In a heartbeat, the artist's feverish imagination supplied a very detailed scenario of Enjolras touching with himself in the bathroom: back pressed against the locked door, eyes shut closed, pants and underwear tugged down enough to free the hard cock that the blond was pumping in a frenzied manner, eager to finish as fast as possible. His left hand, closed in a trembling fist, was clutching a tissue already, instead of tracing over other areas which would enable him to reach higher pleasure.

It was just a fantasy, Grantaire reminded himself. There was no way to know for sure how much it was close to reality, but Grantaire felt like his heart was bleeding in pain nonetheless.

"What a fucking waste!"

It was too much... Unable to resist any longer, he gave a tentative little bite on the nipple. Enjolras let out a noise,as if he was on the verge of tears, his hips jerking up. The movement was sudden, but Grantaire knew better and had expected a reaction like that.

 _"Better slowing down, otherwise he's going to come here and now for real! And... humm... maybe me too."_ he thought as he lowered his body enough to hold the blond in place.

Enjolras whimpered at the feeling of his lover's lower chest pressing against his erection and tried to rock his pelvis again, so to increase the friction, but in vain. A sound of surprise and frustration erupted from his parted lips, whilst his unfocused gaze betrayed how much he was lost already. But then Enjolras stilled: now the only sign of his impatience was his frown.

Head cocked to the side, Enjolras was taking large gulps of air, but that didn't seem to calm the pace at which his chest rose and fell. His forehead was covered by a thin veil of sweat. Slowly, he glanced at Grantaire before averting his gaze.

"Told you... you can do anything you want..." he breathed out finally.

"Yes. So, well, you know..." the cyinic waited for Enjolras to look at him again before going on "There's one little thing I've dreamed doing for so long, more or less since our first meeting."

An almost imperceptible rise of the eyebrows, a blink that made the glint of curiosity in the leader's blue stare even more evident, unmistakable. Enjolras swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing. He looked like someone who's about to dive into the sea from a very high rock. Someone who may fear heights a bit, but is determined to step off the ledge no matter what.

"Is there any good reason you're making me wait, then?" he asked, summoning up the very last bit of his boldness.

Grantaire chuckled. "No."

Just a little leap forward, right? As easy as taking Grantaire’s hand and lead him to the bedroom, Enjolras thought.

"Bed." he said as he tried to push Grantaire back, so to sit up "My bedroom is..." but his voice trailed off when he realized the cynic didn't move, effectively pinning him down.

Instead Grantaire, apparently indifferent to Enjolras' confusion, kissed the flushed chest with care and tenderness. He wasn't following the invisible path outlined by his fingers just before: on the contrary, it seemed he was searching with attentive eyes all the spots that he had neglected, so to stimulate different nerve endings in a different way. The artist noticed the two little moles on the ribcage, just under the right nipple, and mapped out their distance with a lick.

"'Taire... aaah... Bed, p-please!"

"We don't need a bed."

"But..."

"Hush, my love..."

Grantaire looked down. It wasn't a big surprise that Apollo had the most beautiful, tight navel ever, a little hollow sinking into the flesh like it was a sort of natural ornament for the flat abdomen. Grantaire's eyes widened, drinking it in for a long instant.

"Why, hello there, new kink..."

With a sigh, he reached his free hand between them and circled the rim of the navel with the pad of the thumb, earning a shiver. He kept kissing and nibbling his way downwards like he had all the time in the world, losing himself in the taste of the skin and internally debating if it was more arousing than the sweetness of those distracting, plump lips. Enjolras’ erection was poking at him slightly in the chest, getting closer and closer as Grantaire slipped down. Then he pulled away, breaking the last kiss almost abruptly, and... oh, the sound of loss that emanated from Enjolras' mouth!

Enjolras looked down at the cynic, now kneeling between his open legs, and silently swore that, no matter how good Grantaire was going to make him feel, he would at some point make him pay for being such a shameless tease. . Although any desire for revenge was immediately discarded as soon as the artist's rough fingers went back to caressing Enjolras’ skin, dusting over the hips before tracing the edge of his jeans. Their movement didn't falter when they popped the button open and pushed down the zip, brushing the hard cock trapped under it. Enjolras tensed up.

"Is that okay?" Grantaire murmured.

The leader chewed on – at this point it would be better say torturing - his swollen lower lip, but, when Grantaire slipped an index through a belt loop, he gasped and squirmed with evident anticipation, which the dark-haired man took as a yes.

"Lift your hips."

Enjolras did as he was told. Holding his breath, he watched the artist hook his fingers around the waistband and gently push the jeans below the hips.

As soon the bright red of the boxer briefs flashed between the hems of the open fly, Grantaire found himself fighting the urge to grinning. Wasn't that fucking perfect, he mused as he tugged the jeans lower. He knew that red was Enjolras' favourite colour but finally having the proof that the revolutionary liked it to this point was priceless! All of a sudden, Grantaire's wet dreams felt like some sort of erotic premonition.

Since apparently Enjolras also liked to wear the skinniest jeans known to man, the Grantaire struggled a bit to shuck them all the way down. Only when the jeans were bunched around the ankles he realized that Enjolras had his shoes still on. Biting down a curse, he fumbled briefly with the laces before deciding not to waste time, so he took the trainers off with undue ceremony, flinging them over his shoulder. Apparently he hit something on the shelves, but the sound of that something crashing to the floor didn't bother him, nor Enjolras. The jeans and the socks joined the shoes right after.

Grantaire was speechless. His avid gaze roamed reverently over the god splayed out beneath him, taking in the elegant lines of his lithe body, the cut of the hips, the sharp contours of the bones and the firmness of the muscular structure... It was like staring at ideal anatomy in the flesh. Whatever fantasies Grantaire had harboured, they hadn't prepared him for this. Every part of Enjolras was absolutely flawless: it wouldn't be impossible to change even the smallest detail without ruining such perfection. The artist felt like crying with joy and silently hoped that so much beauty wouldn't make him lose it.

Lowering his stare to the boxer briefs, Grantaire licked his lips, hungry. He could see the outline of Enjolras' cock through the thin fabric trapping it and his fingers itched. He was hesitant about what to do next. In a second, dozens of possibilities blossomed inside the cynic's mind, making it spin. Oh God, how was he supposed to choose? It was just beyond cruelty asking him to!

Tentatively, Grantaire traced the seam of the keyhole fly with his index finger, the pressure barely enough to feel the hard shaft.. The blond made a sound which it could only be described as something between a moan and a sob and his whole body tensed. Grantaire glanced up, expecting his Apollo to look at him with flaming eyes, like when, at meetings, he silently studied Grantaire as to guess his next move and, at the same time, dared him to make it. Instead, the artist was surprised to see that Enjolras had raised his right arm to cover part of his face, whereas the other one was bent above his head. Grantaire noticed that the blond was holding his lips firmly beneath the teeth; he couldn't see his eyes, hidden under the arm, but he would bet that they were tight shut.

Nervousness and shyness were creeping back over Enjolras, as the realization of what was about to happen made his sweat slickened body taut like a bowstring. Grantaire realized that he couldn't tease Enjolras any longer. This wasn't the time to work him to the edge with excruciating slowness, making him wait and beg whilst his notorious self-control would come apart a little more with every touch. It wouldn't be right to leave him hanging, not whilst Enjolras was still so innocent and completely relying on Grantaire for his first taste of sex. Besides the artist doubted he would be able to hold himself back for long as well, now that he was so close to have the love of his life like he'd always dreamed.

Doing his best to sound as reassuring as possible, he said: "We won't do anything you don't want to. You just need to say it, love. Anytime. No matter how far we're gone: if you feel uncomfortable, I will stop."

He slipped off the sofa and dropped to his knees on the floor, as he did so he gently pushed Enjolras’ legs further apart so his torso was able to fit between them. Grantaire held his breath as he moved, giving Enjolras time to speak if he wanted, but, to his utter relief, he just heard him inhaling shakily through his nose.

Encouraged, Grantaire continued. He reached out to the waistband of the underwear, where a light trail of fair hair dusted the skin. There was a darker spot where the precome had dampened the fabric and, without thinking, he leaned over and pressed a tender kiss at the spot.

"Aaah! Gran... Grantaire!"

Enjolras barely managed to get the name out before forgetting all about words: now nothing existed but Grantaire’s mouth on him. The leader cried out and trembled and did so again, louder, harder, as soon as the dark-haired man parted his lips and breathed warm air against the fabric. When he felt the warm, soft tongue licking his hardness through the cloth, his legs clenched around the cynic's sides and his hips snapped up as if he’d been electrocuted.

"F-Fuck!"

Breath coming out in chocked gasps from his mouth, the blond's body kept shaking under Grantaire's ministrations. Enjolras couldn't believe it: he hadn't expected to feel the cynic's tongue on his cock when he still had his underwear on! That kiss was a little reminder of the fact that it wasn't him the one leading the way, now. Above all, it was so surprising and... dirty, but in a good, very good way. Enjolras wanted to shut his eyes to shield himself from embarrassment, instead he found himself peeking out from under his arm. Now unable to look away, he stared wide-eyed at Grantaire, at what he was doing to him.

Grantaire nuzzled at his length with a content sigh before lapping at the hidden crown again once, twice. His tongue was so soft and maddeningly sweet that Enjolras wanted to cry and almost did so when the tongue left him. Grantaire placed another light kiss on the wet patch, now darker, and smiled up at him with an expression so full of devotion, like the leader was his whole world. In response, Enjolras gave him an imploring look. It didn't go unnoticed.

With a throaty hum, Grantaire tugged the waistband of the boxers over the length of him slightly catching the head. Apollo tensed up and covered his face again.

If Grantaire had thought that he was turned on before, he was very much mistaken. He was so entranced that his hands moved mechanically, pushing Enjolras' legs up so as to take the underwear off, then scrunching it into a ball that was absent-mindedly dropped on the coffee table.

Grantaire placed Enjolras' left leg, dangling off the sofa, on his shoulder, then he roamed his fingers along the firm line of the thigh before indulge on the hollow on the back of the knee. He openly stared. Lust drummed inside his body, more insistent with each heartbeat. There he was, his golden god in all his glory, wearing nothing but that shirt that fell open along the sides of his chest: in a way, it underlined Enjolras' nudity, making him look more exposed and alluring, more breath-taking than anything the artist had ever seen.

And his cock... oh God in Heaven, his cock was simply a masterpiece. It was beautiful, to the point that the artist might feast his eyes over it and lose track of time without noticing - something not so common in the matter of dicks, if you asked Grantaire. It was also quite... elegant, if that was the right word, slightly curved and surrounded by a nest of blond hair just a bit darker than the leader's angelic curls. There wasn't anything obscene, grotesque or embarrassing about its look. It was perfect, a sight to commit to memory, exactly like every other part of Enjolras. If that cock seemed slightly under average, well, Grantaire was sure it was just a matter of proportions, because Enjolras was so tall... The artist's mouth watered nonetheless.

"You're a vision, Enjolras. If only you could see yourself right now..." Grantaire murmured before pressing a kiss right above his knee. His hands began sliding up and down the thighs, smoothing the skin covered in goosebumps, each time inching closer to the groin "I'm so lucky to be allowed to see you like this. God, I love you so much..."

His words were met by silence, since the blond kept biting his lips.

 _"Stubbon as always."_ the cynic thought, but then his lips crooked into a smile: soon Enjolras would be unable to control himself again, panting and shivering even more than before for a pleasure infinitely bigger.

Grantaire's smile widened, getting quite wolfish. He really liked going down on his partners: to him, it was just a logical consequence of how much he loved sex in general. Hearing a girl's sweet moans when he was eating her out was something that had never failed to boost the force of his own orgasm. Anyway Grantaire had a bigger soft spot for blowjobs. Maybe it was because he was a guy himself, so he knew exactly what to do, or maybe it was just accidental... but over the years he'd gotten terribly good at sucking cock. And he was very proud of that talent, now more than ever.

 _"Training..."_ a fragment of his mind said, rationalizing the feeling _"All the blowjobs given until now were just training for this exact moment. For Enjolras. So that I could give him the oral sex of his dreams."_

Grantaire placed open-mouthed kisses and bit softly into the tender flesh of the inner thighs, remembering how many of his past lovers had appreciated the sensation of his stubble between their legs. Enjolras moaned and pushed his hips forward, arching into the touch. Grantaire smirked, pleased: so his stubble felt really good, after all! He nuzzled closer to the shaft until his lips brushed against the fair hairs, inhaling the scent. Then he raised his head enough to look over Enjolras' body in spasms as his large fingers gently encircled the base of the shaft.

"Oh God!" the blond choked out loud and Grantaire's eyes widened almost imperceptibly.

"Yes, mon ange. This is what someone else's hand feels like on your cock."

The grip was tight enough to hold off the climax a bit longer and, judging by his reaction, Enjolras needed that sort of help. Granted, it wouldn't give him time to do everything to Enjolras that he wanted but undoubtedly enough to work some of his "magic".

Noticing that the blond was still biting his abused lips, Grantaire let out a sound that was not quite a growl, not quite a warning, but something in between the two.

"Come on, Apollo, be a good boy and stop hurting your lips." he said and his hot breath fanned over Enjolras’ length "I want to hear what kind of arousing noises you make when you come, so don't even dare keep them to yourself."

And then, finally, moist lips closed around Enjolras' aching hardness.

A cry of surprise tore through the blond as Grantaire sucked just on the head, tasting the precome leaking from it and then swirling his tongue around the tip. He moved slowly at first, pulling the foreskin all the way down, but it felt like he was trying to consume Enjolras with every stroke of his tongue..

Enjolras was in spasms and his head sank even further back into the cushions, whilst his hands were balled up into fists so tight that it had to be painful. Enjolras gritted his teeth, but as soon as the cynic plunged his mouth further downwards, taking in an inch and then another, the leader gave in and let out, between gulps for air, a loud stream of moans and incoherent words.

"I fucking knew he was a screamer!"

Filled with smug satisfaction, Grantaire hummed around the erection and the vibrations sent another bolt of pleasure through the golden god at his mercy. When he bobbed his head upwards enough to rub the pad of the tongue on the sensitive slit, Enjolras’s voice broke in the middle of the cynic's name, turning it into a trembling moan. With a cry Enjolras thrust forward reflexively, desperate to feel more of that hot, wet mouth, but the dark haired man was pressing his forearm across the hip juncture, effectively pinning him to the sofa. The fingers encircling the cock gave a few short pumps in sync with the sucking, then the mouth left off…

"God, no! Gran... Oh... Mmmh..."

... and Grantaire’s right hand took its place, strong and careful, working the slick shaft with just the right pace and pressure. It was as though Grantaire knew Enjolras’s cock better than himself, reducing masturbation to something that felt poor in comparison. Little half-moons had blossomed on the leader's left hip, caused by blunt nails from where the artist had held him still until a moment ago.

The rough pad of the thumb rubbed on the slit, drawing little circles around it, smearing the liquid, and Enjolras sobbed like he was on the verge of tears. He panted for the dark-haired man that was giving what was legitimately the greatest physical pleasure he'd ever felt.

Before Enjolras' cock could really start missing the sensation of wet warmth around it, it was once again engulfed by the artist's mouth whilst fingers glided downwards to stroke his the balls.

Grantaire sucked harder with confidence grown from experience. Enjolras tasted amazing, he though as he took his sweet time to trace the sensitive ridge of the crown with maddening swirls of tongue. He carefully gave a tug to the sac, rolling it in his palm in the way he liked it when jerking off, and Enjolras rocked his pelvis upwards hard, cursing. Grantaire let him fuck into his mouth.

Since temptation was too strong to resist it, the artist removed his mouth from Enjolras’ flushed cock and purposefully nosed his way down to the balls and took one in his mouth, sucking on it slowly which earned him another cry of pleasure. Whilst lavishing the same care on the other ball, Grantaire slipped his hand under Enjolras' arse and dragged his middle finger along the cleft before finding what he was feeling for. At the touch of the wrinkled skin under the pad of his finger, his whole body shuddered.

Oh, it would be so good fingering Enjolras, teasing his sweet spot and watching him be shattered by the strongest orgasm ever...

Above him, the blond called his name and reached down to knot a hand in the black mop of curls between his legs as the other one was clawing at Grantire's shoulder, urging him to keep going and never, never stop.

The feeling of being about to burst was rising inside Enjolras like a huge wave, but instead of towering above him, it was lifting him up, higher and higher. Release was drawing near and the last fragment of the Enjolras’ lucidity formed a simple thought.

"I'm dying."

He could feel his heart racing to its limit and the well-known warmth building up between his loins, yet it felt like something totally new. No way was he going to survive all of this: the ecstasy singing inside him right now was already too much. But Enjolras wasn't scared, maybe because pleasure had overwhelmed anything else, even fear. His mind was filled with pleasure and need, his body a vessel of sensations.

The movements of Grantaire's skilled mouth were exhilarating and scary and everything the blond wanted to feel for the rest of his life. When he felt his glands slide past the cynic's tongue and the throat clench around it, he cried outso loud that, in all likelihood, everyone in the building had heard him.

Grantaire had swallowed the shaft down to the hilt and Enjolras' eyes rolled almost right back inside the head, with fat tears leaking along his heated cheeks.

Then the cynic hummed again and the leader was thrown over the edge.

Head tossing on the cushions, Enjolras bucked his hips in short, aborted thrusts and spent himself down Grantaire's throat. Sparks exploded in front of his wide eyes, filling his vision with spirals of white light. Toes curling, the blond shivered and gave a chocked gasp, as if the orgasm rushing through him had sucked air out of his lungs. He felt like he was about to faint. Or melt, maybe. Instead he just drifted into a heavy doze and, when his eyelids fluttered closed, for a second the light become even brighter, more defined before disappearing. A comforting feeling hummed inside Enjolras and he lay there with a little smile on his lips.

Grantaire kept sucking on the shaft as it softened, letting his Apollo bask in the afterglow as the last spasms made his body shiver. As soon as he finished licking to Enjolras' cock clean, he unbuttoned his trousers and finally freed himself. He knelt on the sofa and jerked off with a fast, merciless pace, too in need of release to care. Wide eyes glued to the sated god under him, Grantaire come with a low grunt as his semen splattered on Enjolras' body in long stripes.

"Fuck... oh fuck..." he panted whilst leaning heavily against the back of the sofa.

He looked at the blond and grinned. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse because of the sore throat.

"I swear to God, Enjolras, I'm going to paint you like this until my hand bleeds!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I really hope this chapter is worth the wait! What do you think about it? I'm quite insecure about the sex, so please, let me know your opinion: it means a lot to me! Thank you for your patience! <3<3<3<3

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if you liked it! I've so many ideas for Enjolras/Grantaire fanfic, but I'm not sure if I'm doing justice to my precious babies!  
> The cat's name, Robespierre, come from a Les Miz comic by PilferingApples on Tumblr.


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